The Great Escape - a New Spin
by CCNilesBabcock
Summary: EDIT - We have re written this story to make it even better than the first one! Please, do give it a try. ;) When C.C. receives the most terrible news, her fears will make her push everyone away and hide from friends and family. Will she face this ordeal alone? Or there will be a special someone that will help her through it? Co-written with TheCrownedLioness.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

The steady clicking of Chanel heels against the pristine hospital floor slashed across the otherwise peaceful atmosphere with an almost brutish quality to them. They were heralding the arrival of a lioness, although said lioness felt no bigger than a cub at the present time, walking down the white hospital hallway.

C.C. Babcock wasn't unfamiliar with the uncomfortable feeling and awkwardness attached to doctor's appointments, but this was a necessary evil. She'd never liked doctors, truth be told, but when you find that ten pounds have melted off you in record time, you have near-constant night sweats, are dealing with enlarged nodes in non-sanctum areas and have lingering airway spasms, you know it's time to pay the doc a visit.

Such was C.C.'s case.

Being a woman whose life's pace was dictated by her work schedule, C.C. didn't usually pay attention to her own health. Medical check-ups were a burdensome task that could be pushed back for months on end, for all she cared.

But then again, even the mighty Bitch of Broadway couldn't ignore each and every red flag her body decided to throw her way. However reluctantly (and even if she'd internally chalked up her maladies as stress), she'd eventually decided it was time to pay the doctor a visit.

So, here she was. Already sat on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside her doctor's office, waiting for her name to be called. She was feeling very much like a prisoner about to go to the gallows.

Seconds bled into minutes. The producer couldn't help glancing every so often at her Cartier wristwatch – was this how eternity felt like?

Eternity eventually stopped dead in its tracks, however. After about a thousand more hours (in her head) and fifteen extra minutes (real time), a nurse carrying a clipboard with a list of patients came in from a side room and immediately started to scan the multitudes of sick and injured waiting there.

"C.C. Babcock?"

Suppressing the need to shout _"At last!", _the producer finally got the satisfaction of moving from her seat (she'd been considering getting up to pace, even if it was the worst movie cliché ever) and followed the woman along the corridor.

"Doctor Harris will be waiting for you, when you go in."

This was it. She could finally sit down with a doctor and get some answers as to what was going on. Straightforward, and simple. It was the way she liked things to be – as efficient and easy as they could be, all the while bringing about the results that she wanted.

And she hoped this would bring about results that she wanted...

The door she was directed to was slightly ajar, and a voice called for her to come in when she knocked. So, she went.

Dr Harris, a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like fifty different sweaters all thrown together into one underneath her white coat, looked up from her paperwork, smiled and rose from her seat when she saw C.C. come through.

"Ah, you must be C.C.! It says on my notes that you prefer that to Chastity-Claire," she said brightly, sticking her hand out for the producer to shake. "It's a pleasure."

C.C. took the proffered hand, not fully sure how to take this new doctor. She reminded her a bit of Nanny Fine, and she didn't know if she found that comforting or not.

"Likewise, Doctor."

Dr Harris gestured at the seat in front of the desk, "Please, take a load off your feet; no sense in standing for however long we're here...!"

C.C. wanted to reply that she wanted it short enough that it wouldn't matter if she was stood, but she knew she couldn't control that. So, she thanked Harris and took the seat.

There was a weird sense of deja-vú to the whole thing – almost like being back at the nurse's office at school. She'd always hated the nurse's office. The cleanliness, the excessive whiteness of it all, and the pungent scent of bleach had always made her skin crawl.

She had to concede, however, that Dr Harris' office was much nicer than the nurse's office. It was clean and was slightly more inviting, probably because the walls were of a soft beige colour and its owner had decorated it with nice paintings and fake flowers.

"So," said the doctor as she pulled out a small notepad and a blue Bic from a side drawer, "What brings you here today, Miss Babcock?"

C.C. listed her symptoms one after the other then. She tried not to think much about how many they were and how admittedly worrying they seemed – she was probably overthinking, she told herself, It's probably nothing…right?

The doctor's expression didn't seem to agree with her wishful thinking – her warm smile had soon turned into a seemingly worried frown, and she hadn't stopped jotting down notes since she'd begun talking. Again, it made C.C. feel incredibly vulnerable, so much so that part of her wanted to simply stand up and take her leave.

She couldn't and wouldn't do so, but she could dream.

She found she could only sit in silence after having listed all her symptoms, legs and arms crossed and heart hammering in her chest. She didn't like being on this side of the table when she was usually the one doing the judging over other, but what else was there for her to do?

It was unsettling, though. The silence. It felt ominous.

Foreboding.

"So, doc," said the producer, breaking the silence she felt she could bear no longer, "What is it? Stress? Lack of sleep?"

Dr Harris did not reply. Instead, she reached for some plastic gloves, slipped them on and got to her feet as she gestured over to the examination table at the other end of the room.

"Miss Babcock, I need to see the inflamed area in your groin," she said instead. "Please, if you'll remove your pants and lie down…?"

If she'd been feeling like running away before, her to do so had just grown tenfold. Millions of questions were pouring into her mind – Why hadn't the doctor answered to her question? Was she sick? Was it bad? What was going to happen to her?!

None of them could be answered presently.

At least not if she didn't do as the doctor had told her.

C.C. soon found herself standing by the examination table, slowly undoing her pants with trembling fingers. She tried not to think as she undressed, focusing only on her breathing and the soft rustle of her pants as they were removed and subsequently folded. The doctor said nothing throughout the process apart from politely asking if she'd like her to place her pants, socks and shoes atop the small footstool that lay next to the examination table. C.C. nodded as she climbed onto the examination table and lay down there.

She made a (pointless) effort not to look while Dr Harris glanced at the inflamed monstrosity between her legs. The moment she gently felt around the area, however, C.C. couldn't help but gasp.

"Does it hurt if I touch the area, Miss Babcock?" asked the doctor, pulling her hands away from the affected area.

The producer shook her head no while silently admonishing herself for behaving in what she considered to be a childish manner. She was an adult, for the love of Christ! She had to be able to bear a stupid examination, like any other normal person.

"No," C.C. rasped, "no it doesn't."

"How long has it been there?"

"Around two weeks, I believe," C.C. said. "The nightsweats have been around for longer, though – maybe three weeks or so."

"I see," said the doctor in a tone that made it evident that there had to be something wrong with C.C., "Could you please sit up, Miss Babcock? I need to listen to your breathing."

C.C. mumbled a fearful "sure" and complied. Was it normal for the world to spin around her like this while having a routine check-up?

"Now," Dr Harris said as she picked up her stethoscope from a small metal tray atop a wheeled cabinet opposite to the examination table and adjusted the earpieces. "I will lift your shirt and hold the stethoscope against your chest. I want you to breathe normally until I tell you otherwise, alright?"

C.C. nodded, unable to speak.

"Excellent. Let's begin then," said Harris before gently lifting C.C.'s shirt.

Once again, and just like it had happened when she'd been waiting for the doctor to see her, C.C. felt that time had slowed down to a crawl. Seconds might as well have been centuries, and minutes millennia. The fact that she could clearly see the worry on Dr Harris' face did nothing to soothe her nerves, either.

C.C. was shaking by the time the doctor had pulled away from her and was removing her stethoscope, and not precisely because she was half-naked.

"I want you to get a CT scan," Dr Harris announced, "If you'll get dressed, the nurse will take you to the scanning room."

Only a few of those words made any sense whatsoever to C.C.. Those words being "scan", "nurse" and "imaging". And all of those were terrifying, let alone the ones that she hadn't heard before and didn't understand!

She never liked asking anybody for anything, but she was desperate. The doctor would have to tell her. The doctor knew what was going on and would have to tell her, wouldn't she? It was the rules of being a doctor, wasn't it? They had to tell their patients if something was up, it stopped them from getting sued when the patient complained because they didn't like the fact that their arm was hanging off, or something!

"What is that?" she asked, voice quicker than she wanted it to be. And only speeding up. "A scan? What kind of scan? Is there something the matter? What is it?!"

Harris pulled a face that C.C. didn't particularly like, and gave a soft sigh that the producer liked even less.

"I...have some suspicions, but we need to get you this scan first. That'll tell us all we need to know, before you come back here and we even have to think about a possible diagnosis."

That sent a chill down C.C.'s spine that didn't leave once it was finished leaving fear icicles all over her vertebrae.

Diagnosis. She didn't think she'd heard a scarier word all day. It implied she was sick - sicker than she previously thought she'd be. But how sick was that?! She'd been counting on it really being nothing at all, and yet now everything seemed to be flipping on its head and she was so sick she couldn't even think straight about it!

There wasn't anything she could do about it, either. That was the worst part...

All she could do was nod, quietly thank Dr Harris, and head out to where the nurse was waiting so that they could go to this "scanning room".

She barely heard the nurse when she said the scanning room was nearby – for all she cared, it was on the other side of the Sahara desert. She was gripped by a paralysing fear – fear of the unknown. Of not knowing what could possibly be wrong with her.

So many things could be going awfully wrong with her! And she had done nothing about it. It made her want to slam her face against a brick wall until she either lost consciousness or woke up from what could only be a nightmare.

Her every thought was laced with fear. She was trying to keep the bad, ugly thoughts at bay, but somehow obsessing telling herself that surely she'd be fine felt like it wasn't enough.

After all, she knew they were empty words.

She had no idea if she'd be alright or not. She had no idea what was wrong with her to start with. She was adrift, and for now she could only hold on tight and hope for a speedy arrival to safe land.

By the time they got to the scanning room C.C. had managed to recover some control over herself and was trying to keep the shaking to a minimum. She hadn't had a CT scan before so, in spite of the fear, she wanted to ensure it was performed correctly.

She was asked to remove her jewellery and shoes then, which she quickly did before lying down on the long table and letting the nurse drape a blanket over her lower body.

Funny, she was so nervous she'd barely noticed just how cold the room was.

"Miss Babcock?" said the nurse, bringing C.C. out of her thoughts. "I need you to extend your left arm so I can insert the IV line."

"IV line?" C.C. replied – there were alarms howling in her head. She hated needles. "Nobody said anything about an IV line!"

The nurse placed a soothing hand on C.C.'s shoulder. This wasn't her first rodeo, clearly. She knew this was a first timer and, in her experience, those required a little extra patience.

"It's just to inject the dye into your system, Miss Babcock," the nurse said, "You see, substances like bones are easy to see. But soft tissues don't show up as well. They may look faint in the image. To help them appear clearly, we need a special dye called a contrast material. They block the X-rays and appear white on the scan, highlighting blood vessels, organs, or other structures."

Well, that made sense...it didn't mean that C.C. liked the sound of it any more than she had done before, but still!

But she supposed if she stood any chance of finding out what the hell was going on (at this point, what choice did she have but to find out?), then she had to let it happen.

She nodded slowly, "Okay...what do I have to do?" Well, that made sense...it didn't mean that C.C. liked the sound of it any more than she had done before, but still!

But she supposed if she stood any chance of finding out what the hell was going on (at this point, what choice did she have but to find out?), then she had to let it happen.

She nodded slowly, "Okay...what do I have to do?"

The nurse helped C.C. to extend her arm and placed it on an armrest attached to the examination table, "Just keep still, and keep your arm out like this. I'll put the line in, and the contrast will go in after that. You might feel hot, in your throat and your genitals; it will make you feel like you're going to urinate."

C.C. wanted to interrupt that she was loving the sound of it already, but the fear was more overwhelming than the urge to be sarcastic. She needed it to be done and over, and stopping to talk would only delay it.

"-But it's just the contrast doing its job and the feeling will pass in a few seconds," the nurse finished with a smile. "Now, keep your arm right there..."

Not even knowing if she was allowed to turn her head while the IV was connected, C.C. chose to shut her eyes instead. It didn't stop her from feeling it go in, having to suck in a breath when that happened, or the odd coolness of foreign liquid flowing down the tube into her veins.

But it did mean that she didn't actually have to see it happen. It was weird enough having to feel the hot sensation of...something...warming at her throat, like she'd just eaten an entire bowl of chilli in one go. It took all her strength not to try and sit up to look down, when the warmth spread _there_, too!

How the hell was it warming two different places, on two opposite ends of her body?! Why was it making her feel like she'd just gone to the bathroom, out in the open, on a hospital table?!

But she didn't even have time to ask – just as the nurse had said, the feeling lessened in her throat almost as soon as she'd thought of it, and she remembered that the nurse had said the whole peeing thing it was just a feeling.

Thank God. She would probably have killed herself out of humiliation if she had gone to the bathroom on the table...

She must have visibly relaxed after, because when the nurse came to check, she looked pleased.

"All done?" she asked, not waiting for a nod or anything before continuing. "Then we can move on with the procedure. Now, I have to wait outside, so listen to what the technician says and this'll be done in no time."

Well, it wasn't like she had much else of a choice. All she could do was stay where she was, while the nurse got to gather up some of the equipment and leave the room, closing the door behind her.

It was the first time C.C. had envied a person whose job absolutely did not pay enough.

"Miss Babcock, can you hear me?"

The sudden voice seemingly coming from out of nowhere made the producer flinch, but to her credit she kept her arm (and the rest of her body) firmly in place.

That, she reasoned, must have been the technician.

"Loud and clear," she replied.

"Fantastic. Now, things are about to get loud in there, but I want you to pay attention to the signs right above you. Can you see it?"

C.C. replied affirmatively.

"Good. Now, when the first sign lights up, I want you to take a deep breath and hold it. When the second sign lights up, I want you to breathe normally, okay?"

Again, C.C. replied that, yes, she'd absolutely gotten it. She was also on the cusp of demanding that he simply got on with it, but she reminded herself that some things simply couldn't be hurried. She'd have to exercise her patience and dance to the technician's tune.

"Alrighty," the technician's voice said through the speakers, "Let's get this over and done with..."

A loud whirring noise immediately followed, and just as the technician had said, the first sign lit up. C.C. took a deep breath – as deep as her lungs would allow – and held it while doughnut-shaped scanner began to pick up speed and the table she was on slowly moved through the scanner.

It seemed an eternity before she was allowed to breathe out, but eventually the second sign lit up, signalling she was free to breathe normally again.

The cycle was repeated several times in the course of the next few minutes.

It seemed like she'd been in there forever, before the whirring started to slow.

But that must've meant that it was stopping at last, so C.C. was more focused on that. Thank God - she'd soon be free to move and breathe as she wanted, and she'd be out of the buzzing examination coffin they'd stuck her in!

That would be one relief. Then her main source of anxiety would bear down on her; the test results themselves.

She tried to put it out of her mind as the sliding tray table began to move back out, eventually coming to a halt (making her feel a bit like a newly-revealed prize on a game show) and the voice of the technician came on over the system again.

"Okay, Miss Babcock - just lie still, the nurse'll be in soon to take out your IV."

C.C. thought she could do more than that - the room was freezing and the blanket they'd covered her with was the only thing keeping a layer of frost from settling on her body. She wasn't about to let go of the only remaining warmth she had left!

Not that she got very long with it. The nurse was in there with her quickly and removing the drip even quicker than that.

"There we are," she said, bright but also with an underlying seriousness that made C.C.'s stomach flip over as she was allowed to sit up at last. "You can put your shoes back on now, and any jewellery you had on before. It'll be a few more minutes and then we'll have the test results ready, okay?"

C.C. nodded, but everything was far from "okay". She methodically and nearly robotically pulled on her shoes when the nurse brought them over. All the jewellery she'd been wearing before was slipped on or pinned back in place soon after, too.

It was just a matter of time now. The nurse left her to it to get the results from the other room and she was alone.

She wondered how alone she'd end up, if this all went to hell as badly as she was fearing...

But she didn't have much time to think about it, and she wasn't going to start crying over it, either. C.C. Babcock never cried, never showed weakness, never let her emotions get the better of her when she needed to be strong.

She was going to do this, no matter what.

That even went when the nurse came back with a sealed envelope. The test results that would determine her future from that moment on.

"Here we are - just take these back to Dr Harris and she'll go through them with you. She'll be able to answer any of your questions and explain what it all means."

She then handed C.C. the envelope.

The producer took it with the same enthusiasm a person might have if they had been handed a live grenade. She wanted the thing as far away from her as humanly possible, no matter what the paper inside said. It could be the best news in the world, but the fact that it had even had to happen was bad enough for her to want them and their stupid little words and numbers gone.

But she couldn't throw them in the trash. That wasn't dealing with the problem. And, as much as she knew she liked to avoid dealing with... certain problems, this one couldn't be ignored.

She couldn't carry on with her day if she was sicker than she thought.

So, thanking the nurse, she made her way back to Dr Harris' office.

The door was open when she arrived, but she knocked anyway. Harris must have been expecting her, but it was the polite thing to do, especially seeing as the woman herself had her back turned to the door and was busy going through a file cabinet.

She looked up when she heard the knock and smiled, "Oh, C.C. – come in and take a seat, we'll take a look at your test."

"Sure," C.C. said (actually, it was more like she mumbled) and took a seat opposite the doctor before sliding the envelope over to her.

She didn't want to hold onto the piece of paper that would potentially change her life for any longer than she absolutely had to. She'd much rather let Harris deal with it while she braced herself for whatever diagnosis lay hidden within.

"Alright, let's take a look," said Harris, opening the envelope and gently removing its contents.

C.C. was mildly surprised by the sheer amount of x-rays that had once been contained in the envelope, all of them not scattered over Dr Harris' desk. C.C. had to keep herself from glancing at the images, but even if she had she was sure she wouldn't have been able to interpret them. To her, they looked like an indistinct collection of black and white smudges. It was beyond her how Dr Harris (or any other doctor for that matter) was able to interpret them and make out the things that should or shouldn't be there.

She supposed it was good one of them could.

Silence swelled in the room as Dr Harris went over C.C.'s study, interrupted occasionally by the flicking of pages in the little report that came attached to her study. Harris' expression had turned serious ever since opening it, and C.C. wasn't sure how she should feel. There was nearly unbearable nervousness, of course, and the wait was agonising, but the doctor wasn't giving any indications as to whether she was seriously ill or not.

Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe she was making a world out of nothing. For all she knew it could be something minor that could be fixed with some rest and antibiotics.

Maybe she had nothing to fear.

But again, what did she know?

Fear gripped C.C.'s heart again just as the doctor looked up from her x-rays – her expression didn't bode well. Why would she look so worried if things were okay?

God…this had to be bad!

"Miss Babcock, has anyone come with you today?" asked the doctor in a soft tone that C.C. recognised as the tone most people used to soften certain blows before delivering them.

"No," replied the producer, "I came on my own."

"Oh. I see," Dr Harris said, frown deepening. "Would you like to call–"

"What is it?" C.C. interrupted her, her voice strained – she couldn't stand the waiting anymore. She had to know. "What's wrong with me?"

Harris sighed. She wasn't fazed or surprised by the way she'd been spoken to. She'd seen this reaction many times before and she frankly couldn't blame the patients. She understood the need to know what was wrong, but she'd much rather the patient was accompanied by someone when she broke the news.

Now a dual task fell on her. It wasn't her first time doing this, but it never got any easier.

"Miss Babcock," Dr Harris said, reaching over for C.C.'s hand and grasping it in her own, "There is a tumour between your left lung and your heart. That, combined with the symptoms you've described, makes me think you have Hodgkin's lymphoma. A…a type of blood cancer."

C.C. had never been hit with an actual ton of bricks before, but in that moment, she realised what it must have felt like.

Like the whole world was coming crashing down on you, leaving behind only tremendous pain, fear, and no way of stopping what was happening.

It was...almost overwhelming, how one word could change absolutely everything.

Cancer. She had cancer. There was a tumour growing in her body that she was starting to want so desperately to claw out with her own bare hands in her rising panic that she was only half-listening to what the doctor was saying.

It was coming in and out in a haze...

"...We don't know the staging yet, but from what I've seen, it's three or over and advanced, but the type is very curable..."

_Staging_. Oh, God, of course cancer came in _stages_! Advanced - she knew what that meant. And Harris might've said that it was very curable, but what were the chances?! The odds?! Was she going to live, or would she be one of the statistics who didn't get so lucky?! Would she have a timer hanging over her for years? Months? Weeks, even?! She'd heard of people spotting it so late that they barely saw to the end of the month! Was she one of them?!

Her chest was hurting, and her breathing was shallow, shaking and rapid. Was that her terror, or was it her tumour?!

She didn't know. But right about then was the perfect time to ask the doctor what she was going to do. There had to be something, didn't there? An eleventh hour reprieve from the nightmare her life had suddenly become?

"What do I do, doc?" her panicked words garbled right across Harris' explanation. "Tell me what to do here – I've got nothing and I–"

She'd been about to admit for the first time in decades that she needed help, but Harris raised a hand to calmly silence her and spoke.

"You've got to stay here, so that we can perform a few more tests. The important thing is not to panic, or to worry yourself too much. As I said, if you have the type I suspect, it's very curable. We're professionals and we'll find out exactly what we're dealing with."

Being the perennial cynic, C.C. couldn't bring herself to fully believe the doctor. Modern medicine had an answer to most ailments, yes, but it was not infallible. Mankind could play God all it wanted, but it was still unable to twist nature's arm on every occasion.

She'd seen it before – people who had every chance to get better, people who, had life been fair, should have overcome their illness...

And yet, they'd become another statistic. They'd been the unlucky ones who belonged to the small percentage of patients who didn't make it to the other side.

So how could anyone be sure C.C. would survive? What indication was there for Dr Harris to be so adamant about the certainty of her recovery? There were no guarantees, and C.C. wasn't particularly interested in hearing some cheesy spiel about how she had to have hope.

She'd much rather go back home, drink herself into a drunken stupor, and eventually go on with her pathetic little life until it died out, however quick that was.

She was being unreasonable, she knew that, but could anyone blame her? There wasn't a manual on how to react to the news that you have cancer!

If only there was. There might've been a section on a sure fire cure...

As it was, her entire life now had a great big question mark hanging over it. She didn't like that at all, or the feeling that came with it – hence the need to get drunk. At least then, if she had to feel, it would feel far nicer than everything she was feeling right now.

But she knew that she wasn't even going to be allowed to leave. It was a testament to her ability to be polite that she wasn't kicking up a fuss the size of a thunderstorm and demanding to be let go, if she was honest...

It would get her nowhere. Just like the direction her life was now going in.

The little life she had, anyway. Her home, her family...her friends and work at the mansion...that was about it. And now she could suddenly see it all disappearing.

Maybe, in some cases, it would be better if she disappeared first...

But that was a depressing question for later. For now, all she could do was nod at the doctor and submit to being kept there in the hospital for as long as the professionals decided.

"Alright," her voice was much quieter than before and she knew her eyes had trailed off to the wooden surface of Harris' desk, but she didn't care. "Let's do that, then..."

She still didn't fully believe it, but it wasn't as though she could argue back, right? It wouldn't change the fact that she could be dead soon enough, with or without medical intervention.

She might as well see what happened with medical intervention. She'd fought to get things and places all her life and even if she didn't really feel like fighting right now, if she wanted a future, she at least had to give it a shot.

"That's the spirit," Dr Harris said, stroking C.C.'s back in what the producer recognised as an affectionate manner.

She appreciated the doctor's attempt at being comforting, but she'd still take a nice bottle of Jack Daniela over any support anyone could provide.

Being sick entailed treatment — a long-term treatment, probably. A long-term treatment meant that she'd be out of order for however long it took for her to get better. Being out of order meant _telling_ people she was sick.

That last thought made C.C. want to gag.

She simply didn't want to do it. She didn't want anyone to know she was sick! She wouldn't be able to bear the pity or the fear in their eyes. She had enough with her own fear to burden herself with someone else's.

She'd much rather face this shit-show by herself. She didn't want to become a burden. She was too proud to let anyone in while she was vulnerable. Of course she was aware that someone should know, but she'd keep that number to a minimum. Her brother surfaced in her mind, but that was about it.

Her parents didn't need to know, and neither did the Sheffields. She had to come up with a suitable excuse and then disappear until she either got better or kicked the bucket.

But that would come later. She couldn't afford to start scheming just yet. Tests still needed to be performed on her. She still had to know where she stood and how far had her illness progressed. Once the picture was clearer, she'd see about dealing with the Sheffields and her extended circle.

Although, she did still have to call the mansion, to let Maxwell know that she wouldn't be coming to work today. A tiny part of her mind muttered "or ever again" as an end to that sentence, but she ignored it. For now, she didn't know if that was true and she'd much rather not think about it right at that moment.

She had more important things to focus on.

Asking if she could have a few moments to make a personal call, Dr Harris gave her a sympathetic look and told her to take all the time she needed.

That was almost ironic, seeing as her time was clearly borrowed right now.

Thanking Harris and heading out with her cellphone pressed to her ear, she waited for the dialling tone to finish and somebody to pick up.

And, after what felt like forever, someone did.

"The Sheffield residence?"

The tone and formality immediately gave away who it was and C.C. struggled not to roll her eyes. Of course it would have to be the butler that she was put on with! Since when did Maxwell ever answer his own goddamned phone?!

She didn't want to talk to Niles about any of this, but if she was going to relay the message, she had to. Not that she'd pass along any details.

"Hello, Niles," she said.

"Miss Babcock...! We were starting to get worried about you," the butler replied, his usual mocking tone now in full force and clearly ready for one of their usual standoffs. "We'd thought that the sun had been too strong this morning and that you'd finally burst into flames!"

C.C. gritted her teeth. She knew that she could get angry then, and toss something back about him never seeing the sun because of his life of indebted servitude, but she didn't. There wasn't any point. She didn't want to stretch this out anymore - even talking to him was riling her up and she didn't need that kind of aggravation right then...

"Not this time," she replied shortly. "I was just calling to tell Maxwell that I won't be coming in today."

There was a hint of interest in the butler's voice when he next spoke.

"Really?" he asked. C.C. could already tell what was coming at this point. "You absolutely can't make it in? Did someone forget to take the nails out of your coffin?"

That did it for C.C.. She'd tried to be civil about it - as much as she could be with that...that asshole anywhere near a conversation she was part of - but he clearly couldn't see when he needed to change! He couldn't see that she was being serious, because her life was hanging in the balance for all she knew, and now the jerk just had to go off and make a joke about _coffins_?!

She didn't need it. She didn't need him.

No more zingers. No more insults. If she didn't need to be sure that he would tell Maxwell what she'd said, she'd hang up the phone right then and there.

Leave him wondering about it for the rest of his life, maybe. That'd teach him.

She ended up going one better.

"It's none of your goddamned business why I won't be in!" she snarled, her voice reverberating off the walls. "I just won't be! So tell Maxwell that I'm not coming in and then stay the hell out of my life!"

It was only on very rare occasions that he was ever at a loss for words for that length of time. But it seemed like an age before Niles spoke again.

"I see...very well, then. I-I'll be...I'll be sure to pass on your message..."

C.C. snorted out a self-satisfied huff, but she wasn't sure if the sound made it down the other end of the line.

She didn't care if it did. He sounded shaken by what he'd just heard, so leaving him to stew in any silence that followed felt like a cherry on top of the sweetest slice of revenge cake.

It tasted like vindication. And, maybe Niles would actually learn something from what had just happened.

Maybe he'd actually find a real hobby, or at least stop being such a rat bastard all the time.

Maybe he'd be a different servant, by the time she came back.

If she came back. If not, he could probably learn to be better with the next producer Maxwell hired to go into business with him.

She knew he wouldn't miss her, that was for sure. There were very few people in the world who actually would. That's what made not telling...most people...so easy.

Not that she cared what...most people...thought.

"Will that be all, Miss Babcock?"

The question brought her back out of her thoughts. Was that all? Was that really how she could sum up nearly twenty years of knowing a person, whether they were the best of friends or the worst of enemies?

It didn't really take long for the logic in her head to overcome any kind of thought about having people you know around you during a time of crisis.

She knew what the answer to his question was. Especially after what had just happened.

That was all.

She didn't want to have to listen to any more of his smug, self-satisfied words that hit closer to home than he'd ever know. And she couldn't let it drag out anymore, potentially letting somebody else come to the phone and start asking questions.

Maxwell, if he got off that oblivious behind of his to come and check what was going on, would no doubt demand an explanation as to why she wasn't coming in. She couldn't afford that. When it came to Nanny Fine, well, the woman would want to know everything that wasn't her business, right down to the colour of the hospital walls!

And as for the man she was speaking to right then on the phone...he was lucky she hadn't simply told him to hand the phone over to their employer in the first place.

If she was going to disappear, she was going to do it properly. And that meant no ties, or barely any. Niles could relay whatever information he wanted to the Sheffields, she wasn't going to be around to give any kind of explanation.

They'd know when it was done, one way or another. Her brother would take care of informing everybody if she couldn't, so they'd hear through him or her father.

That was the base of her plan covered.

"Yes, that is all," she replied stonily.

She hung up the phone immediately after. She had no desire to say goodbye to him – she didn't like goodbyes, especially when she was not sure if they'd be permanent. Let him and the rest of the world go back to their humdrum routines and not think about her. She'd much rather be alone anyway.

She pocketed her phone with a huff and turned on her heels, towards the exit, where she knew fate was waiting. There was no going back now, whether she liked it or not. Big girls don't cry, do they? And C.C. Babcock was a damn big girl, wasn't she?

Even if deep down she felt as fragile as a glass figurine.

Still, she marched out with her head held up high and her ego unscathed. Her ability to save face had been years in the making, and she wasn't about to throw all that effort to appear like a heartless bitch out the window just because there was a stupid mass of cancerous cells growing in her chest.

No, she had to cling to the last semblance of her old self – expensive heels and a blade for a tongue. She wasn't naïve, she knew she would fade away in due time, but for now she was still the Bitch of Broadway, and she'd be damned if anyone but her own damn illness took that away from her.

She'd kick and scratch and scream and fight all the way to the grave, if that was what it took.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

Two weeks exactly.

Well, two weeks, give or take several hours if he was really planning on being exact. Either way, it'd been that long (too long) since anybody had last heard from Miss Babcock.

It was even more jarring for Niles in that regard, having been the last one to hear from her in any capacity. He'd relayed her phone message to Mr Sheffield obediently – perhaps the first time he'd ever truly done just as she'd said, nothing more, nothing less – and their employer had been...a little taken aback by it. That wasn't surprising, considering the Miss Babcock they knew would crawl into work with a broken leg if she had to, but Miss Fine had luckily been there to reassure him by politely suggesting that she might've simply been taking a personal day, for Personal Feminine Reasons.

The longer time had gone on, the less that seemed likely. By the end of the first week with no word as to where the producer was or when she'd be returning, Maxwell was no longer sympathetic. By the middle of the second week, he was angry.

At this point he was enraged, and took the liberty to rant whenever anybody mentioned Miss Babcock's name.

"I give her one inch with that day off, and she _has_ to go and take the whole bloody mile! There really is no understanding some people!"

Niles was sure this current rant was still going on as he dusted the living room, the family going about their day behind him, but he'd tuned it out. He didn't feel like hearing any more about Miss Babcock.

Especially not when she was in his head constantly, still screaming at him to get the hell out of her life. He heard it constantly, from the moment he woke up to the time he could finally crawl back into bed and sleep. It was like a ghost, ever-present in his mind, haunting and taunting, with no way of him finding out why it was there or how to get rid of it.

He just didn't understand her snapping like that – he'd only been doing the same thing they'd been doing for...well, since forever! What had changed? What had he said?

Did it have anything to do with her apparently disappearing off the face of the Earth?

He'd compare it to the greatest unsolvable puzzles and riddles of all time, but he wasn't sure that any of those had caused pain like this. Alexander the Great had cleaved the Gordian Knot in two with a sword when he found no other way of undoing it. He couldn't simply undo his hurt by putting a weapon through Miss Babcock's front door, even if that would probably make her come out so that he could demand some answers.

But he knew he had no right to answers. She'd told him as much, and he knew that he had to back down.

Back into the background and shadows, like a good little servant...

His sadness and bitterness didn't stop his eyes from snapping up the minute he heard the doorbell ring. That call – that possibility – was too powerful.

Could it be? After two long, hard weeks of nothing but brooding while listening to Maxwell complaining? Could she really have come back to _hi_–them?

He practically stumbled all the way to the door, nearly crashing into the small, antique table that Mr Sheffield kept in the foyer. He did knock over the ugly decorative vase Miss Fine insisted on keeping there (a Christmas gift that Maxwell had yet to find a good excuse to toss it out the window), but the thing simply refused to break.

Tough luck. He'd have to try harder next time.

He skidded to a halt only seconds before body-slamming the door and wrenched it open without even asking who was on the other side. He was hoping to find Miss Babcock waiting, towering over him in all her glory as she barked orders into her little phone – a prelude to a busy day of work.

He was, however, wrong in his assumption. Where Miss Babcock should have been stood, there only was a stand-offish, balding, middle-aged man: The postman. In all the years Niles had known him, the bloke seemed to be always on edge – nervous without even realising, and probably more than a little paranoid. The butler remembered trying to strike up conversation with him during the first few years he and the Sheffields had lived there, but since his answers were usually non-descript grunts and the occasional monosyllabic word, he'd long since given up.

One of the postman's spindly arms reached into his bag and retrieved a small envelope and before handing it over to Niles. Then, not bothering to say anything, he tipped his cap and rushed back to his truck, murmuring to himself about something Niles couldn't quite hear.

Not that the postman's whispered rambling mattered to him – especially not when he could see that the sender of the letter was none other than Miss Babcock.

Now just what was that supposed to mean?! Miss Babcock never sent letters to the mansion – especially not clearly handwritten ones!

She'd usually consider doing that a waste of her time, especially when she could just hand things in to Mr Sheffield, or even speak to him personally about the matter, when she got to work...

He had to take this to the British producer right away. It had to be important, if Miss Babcock had sent them this instead of actually turning up in person.

He turned and went back inside, feeling more than a little dejected by the fact that he was holding a little folded piece of paper addressed to their employer and not following behind the blonde, asking her if she was late because somebody had forgotten to unlock her cage that morning.

But then he stopped in his tracks, right there between the stairs and the rest of the hallway.

Didn't he want to know what was in the letter? Right away, and not waiting for Maxwell to open it, read it, and then decide if the information was worth repeating aloud? What if Miss Babcock was in some sort of trouble or difficulty? What if Maxwell didn't know what to do or how to help?

He looked down at the envelope, studying every curve and straight line in the producer's neat pen script.

It was taunting him. Tempting him. Telling him that he might never know what was in that letter, if he didn't see it for himself.

That he might never know why Miss Babcock had suddenly decided to disappear from their lives.

That decided it.

Lifting it up in his hands and turning it over, he gently began to feel one finger along the seam-

"Ah, is that the post?"

The sound of Maxwell's cheerful tone immediately ripped his hand away from where he would have started to open it.

He was (shamefully) automatically back into servant mode, and he held out the letter to the producer. As much as he wanted to say it was for him, scurry away and take it to his room, he knew it probably wouldn't be believed – he hardly ever got mail.

He had to give it up.

"Yes sir; this came for you..."

He obediently handed over the envelope, the part of him that had said he'd never find out what the letter contained screaming at him for his idiocy.

But, much to his surprise, Maxwell started to open the letter right then and there. He must have recognised the handwriting on the front as belonging to Miss Babcock (though it would be the first time in his life that he'd ever been so observant), because he tore into it like it was holding the answers to every secret he would ever demand to know.

He probably would demand to know, given his annoyance at her absence for so long without a word now.

Niles held his breath as his employer started to scan the contents. What could it possibly be, that had kept her away from the mansion? Did she say? Did she give an indication of when she was coming back?

Was it to do with-

"_What_?!"

The shout from Maxwell would have resounded through the house, but it almost blasted the butler backwards, sending him straight back to the present moment and jumping out of his skin as he did.

What on Earth was the matter?! What the hell was in that letter that had prompted that reaction?!

Why were Maxwell's eyes tearing furiously across the letter again, almost as though he were re-reading in disbelief, all while one of his hands ran through his hair in agitation...?!

That held breath was starting to make Niles' mouth dry, so he swallowed before he spoke.

Not that it did anything to relieve the tension gripping at his heart.

"Sir...?"

"She's...she's resigned!" Maxwell cried out in return, half-staggering back to lean on the table, all while still reading the letter. "I just...she doesn't say why...I don't understand it! What did I do?! She seemed just fine with me and our partnership before now – what went so wrong that she wanted to..."

Even though the producer's confused ranting continued as the man tried to work out what he could've done in particular to make his business associate leave, Niles stopped listening. He hadn't really and truly heard anything since he'd been hit by that first sentence.

Hit, like a car had struck him going full speed.

Miss Babcock had resigned?! But...but why?! She'd given her life and soul to the company, and to coming in to work every day to help set up shows; it made no sense for her to suddenly just throw it all away! She'd adored her work, like nothing else in her world, so why would she just give it up so easily, without any explanation? Like it meant nothing to her whatsoever, so she could just leave whenever she wanted?

It...it didn't seem like her. It didn't have reason to it, and it was starting to make him panic at the thought of what could really be going on.

Unless...unless she was so put off by the idea of seeing him again that she would simply rather up sticks and go somewhere else...?! Keep her pride by not telling Maxwell that Niles had "won" their little war after all these years to find a better job offer, that didn't come with the butler as part of the package?

Deep down, he knew that hurt to think. But his mind was racing too quickly to stop it, and it was the only possible explanation that had any lick of logic to it!

Not that it satisfied him completely. How could it, when Miss Babcock disappearing into the city like a ghost vanished into thin air really and truly did seem like the last way she'd go? Especially without telling him that he was the reason why! He'd always imagined that she'd want to get the last word in, if she had ever planned on going anywhere!

And those last words would obviously be something witty and cutting, not a short goodbye over the phone.

He fell back into the apparent conversation as Maxwell snatched up the phone from the table, scrambling for it so hard that it fell over before he could fully get a grasp on it.

"I have to call her – there's got to be an explanation for this!" he cried out, his fingers visibly shaking with adrenaline as he dialled the number. He put the phone to his ear, listening intently. "It's ringing."

Niles held his breath. Even if he hadn't been able to get answers out of Miss Babcock, surely their employer would? It was hard to imagine her not giving up answers when Maxwell himself was asking the questions. And it was obvious that Maxwell had more than a few questions.

Not that he was getting anywhere. A little tone sounded and something buzzed on the other end of the line, and the producer groaned.

"Bloody answering machine...!" he then turned his attention to leaving a message. "C.C.? C.C., I know you're there – please pick up the phone. We need to have a talk right now about this letter that came this morning!"

But, for whatever reason, Miss Babcock didn't answer. Just like she didn't answer the next time, or the next. Maxwell was on his fourth dial – and potential fourth message - when Niles finally spoke up.

"Perhaps she isn't home, sir?" he suggested, hoping in his gut that that was all it was, even as the zinger fell from his lips. "It is a nice day out. Her walker might have come to take her to do a lap of the park...?"

Maxwell raised an eyebrow at his joke, but left it apart from that. He rarely got involved in whatever was going on between the two of them – everyone knew that – and Niles already felt bad enough, just having said it.

He supposed it was an automatic reaction, helping him to feel better – like everything was normal. Even when it wasn't.

"It'll be easy enough to find out if she isn't in," Maxwell held the phone back up to his ear. "Go to her penthouse and check, Old Man. If she's there, tell her I need to see her here, right now."

Niles blinked, unsure of what to say. He knew he couldn't really refuse – part of him really didn't want to, if he was honest. It didn't want to leave things as they were between himself and Miss Babcock. It needed answers, and a goodbye that was worthy of their...well, Shakespeare had used the phrase "merry war", and that seemed as good a term as any.

But why would she open up, if she knew it was him at the door? As much as he was yearning to bolt for the nearest taxi heading in the direction of her penthouse, the thought of him going also seemed like a terrible idea. A sure fire way of making sure she never spoke to any of them, ever again. And then none of them would ever get any answers...

"But what if she doesn't answer, sir? Or agree to come back with me?"

Maxwell nearly snapped in return, "Tell her anything you think she needs to hear! I don't care if you have to beg down on your knees, just get her to come back with you!"

Niles flinched a little at the tone in his voice, but relented. The part that wanted him to take off without another word and head straight to Miss Babcock's penthouse cheered.

It was getting exactly what it wanted, without having to fight – internally or externally – to get it.

And Niles couldn't see any more reason to delay. This was an excuse for him to go, wasn't it? Even if she never spoke to them again, he could simply reassure himself with the knowledge that Maxwell had asked him to go in the first place. He hated to call it "passing the blame", but that was what it was...

"Very well, sir," he eventually said, nodding. "I will be on my way there now."

"Good," Maxwell replied, not looking up as he tried dialling again. "I'm going to keep trying this end. One of us is bound to get through to her, eventually."

The butler doubted it, but didn't say so out loud. Instead, he made a quick detour to the closet to grab his coat (with keys) and then headed straight for the garage.

He just had to get the car, and then he'd be on his way.

* * *

New Eden Clinic.

The name had a nice ring to it, and the implication that the next few months of her miserable life would be spent getting better at some hidden, paradisiac corner in Chicago, had sealed the deal for C.C.. It was just the reason behind her having to go there that sucked.

She had cancer. Stage 4B Hodgkin's Lymphoma, to be more precise.

It hadn't taken long for her doctors at Lenox Hill to come up with a diagnosis. They'd prodded and pricked and cut C.C. open several times over, but in just a few days, the producer (or should she say former producer now?) had been handed her fate in the shape of a neat pile of big, white envelopes with the results of her many medical tests inside. Envelopes she was carrying with her right that moment as her brother's car neared the treatment centre she'd be staying in until she… well… she supposed she had to be positive and say until she was better, but at that point in time positivity was AWOL.

Upon receiving her diagnosis, the only person C.C. had wanted to talk to had been her brother. She'd practically blurted out the news without so much as a hello to Noel, but to his credit, he'd taken it exactly as C.C. had wanted him to – with humour.

Black humour, yes, but humour nonetheless.

Had it been anyone else, C.C. was certain there would have been tears and heartbreak – two things she'd had more than enough of – but Noel had simply been quiet for a second before saying:

"_Do you want me to get the hors d'œuvres for your funeral?" _

C.C.'s reply had been laughter. She'd needed just that – a son of a bitch that could be strong and cynical when she herself couldn't be. She hated to admit it, but she felt vulnerable – weak, even. She felt lost, like there was no clear way to go. She felt scared. She felt death creeping around every corner – biding its time, until it was ready to drag her into the abyss she knew there was no return from. She'd always known she'd have to go, but she'd never imagined it would be this soon.

Well, she supposed the game wasn't over yet – Noel had said so when she'd arrived in Chicago, and had been repeating it ever since. It had been his idea for her to come over, and he'd also been the one who'd found out about the clinic from some professor friend of his.

The idea behind the centre was "residential treatment with all the luxuries of home for high-end clients". Discretion came first, naturally, provided that the would-be patients relinquished astronomical amounts of big American bucks to them. It fit C.C.'s bill perfectly, and she had more than enough cash at her disposal to spend several months (if not years) at the treatment centre.

And just like that, after having mailed her medical history to the clinic and having spoken with a number of admin people, Noel had gotten her a place at the clinic. They'd then briefly flown back to New York to get C.C.'s stuff, Chester (who'd be living with Noel and his partner for the time being) and then lock her now empty apartment. The idea of saying goodbye to the Sheffields and Niles had briefly crossed her mind while en route to JFK, but it had gone out the window the second she'd realised _who_ she'd have to face if she did that.

Not to mention that, if Nanny Fine had found out about this crap, she'd have crumbled like a rag doll and burst into loud nasal sobs, all while claiming how terrible and unfair it all was. And suddenly, it would all have circled around consoling her rather than C.C – you know, the actual _dying_ person.

No, it was better this way – no messy goodbyes, no uncomfortable explanations, no butler-shaped loose ends to tie…

She had her brother, and that was all she needed. Not her parents (who, by C.C.'s express request, were ignorant of her condition), not her friends, not Niles. They didn't need to know – at least not for now. If things got ugly, then she'd call them and give them the opportunity to say goodbye, if they wanted to, but unless that was the case, they were better off not knowing. They probably wouldn't want to be there anyway – she knew the treatment was going to be long and that it was going to wreck her body. They didn't love her enough to see her at her worst, which was just as well.

She didn't want them to see her like that either, anyway…

She tried holding onto that thought as her brother's car pulled up the clinic's driveway, but her mind was soon distracted by the sheer magnificence of the place.

It honestly looked more like a fancy hotel than any kind of medical facility – a gorgeous white brick building with a slate roof and big, beautiful Georgian windows. It was basically the size of a small palace, and was easily visible even from the long driveway.

They drove slowly up said driveway towards it, heading for a parking lot outside the doors, decorated by what looked like a small fountain.

As they went, they were met by sculpted gardens and hedges, perfectly kept trees lined the way to provide privacy and well-tended lawns offered a soft place to walk...she thought she could even spy a swimming pool, over the back!

That must've been for patients who really were getting better. She tried not to wonder if she would be one of those patients – what was the point? She'd only be setting herself up for disappointment if she was wrong.

Well, "disappointment" there really meant "heartbreak", but of course she didn't want to think about that. There'd be plenty of time to be sad later – she was there now, and they had to get this show on the road.

And they had to do that in spectacular Babcock style. Which, obviously, meant putting away anything touchy-feely or overly emotional until the time came when there wasn't much else left to be.

She gave a low, impressed whistle as she looked up at the place through Noel's windshield.

"Is this place for curing cancer, or hosting wedding receptions?"

Noel chuckled appreciatively, "Well, all the brochures say the former. I don't know how much extra the doctors would charge for parties – that isn't covered in the quoted price."

C.C.'s eyebrow raised, "Practically a crime that it isn't, considering how much this place cost on its own...!"

The two siblings shared a laugh.

"Well, I might surprise you and throw a remembrance party for your now defunct career," teased Noel, nudging his sister on the side. "That should do for a nice get together, eh?"

"Hm, you should know – didn't you go through the same thing when you were denied tenure for, what was it, the third time?" C.C. shot back.

"Joke's on you, dear sister, I _am_ a tenured professor now," Noel said, grinning in that infuriatingly smug way of his.

"Professor Ginsburg dying and you getting your dirty paws on his spot was just a stroke of luck," the former producer said. "But we should get a move on – we are burning daylight here and we can't have that!"

"Funny, I thought it was daylight burning you and not the other way round."

C.C.'s response was a swat on the back of her smirking brother's head – her secret weapon for when he got too much of a smart mouth and needed to be shut up. It was a tactic she'd been using since childhood and, so far, it had never failed her. Verbal sparring was part of the Babcock nature, but she was in no mood to indulge. Not today.

Together, the two siblings got out of the car and fetched most of C.C.'s numerous suitcases from the trunk. Noel knew better than to tell his sister to take it easy – as long as she was able-bodied, she wouldn't tolerate being treated like an invalid. He had to let her be, and wait for her to ask for help if she needed it. Still, he discretely got the heaviest cases out so she wouldn't have to carry them.

Because, just as he knew to let her be, he also knew that she could be infuriatingly bullheaded when she wanted to.

"Let's get going," Noel said as they finished unloading four out of the seven suitcases C.C. had brought with her. "We'll come back for the other three once you're settled."

By "we" Noel meant himself, but there was no sense in bringing that up now. He knew she wouldn't appreciate it. He didn't want to have any reason to argue, or to delay going inside, either. Even if there was something more than incredibly daunting about that fact.

But he had to shrug it off – or at least hold it in (as their parents had been so fond of doing with a lot of feelings). The sooner his little sister – as she would ever remain, no matter what – got started on her treatment, the sooner they'd see...well, just how "back to normal" they could ever expect life to get.

C.C., meanwhile, detected that her brother was trying to hurry things along. She wasn't exactly turning somersaults at the thought of walking through the doors, but she knew he was right. Whether he said it out loud or not, she knew what he meant by it.

It was time to go in, and get started with whatever God or fate or the universe had in store.

She nodded at her brother's suggestion, grabbing the cases he hadn't taken, "Alright, then. Let's get in there..."

Noel offered her as much of a smile as either of them could manage, and together, they made their way in through the front doors of the facility.

The lobby was just as grand as any part of the outside, and as pristine as anybody would expect any place called a "hospital". Cream-coloured marble floors met their feet, shining with recent cleaning and sending out echoes as they walked, while oil paintings hung tastefully on the columned walls, extending far down corridors with signs hanging overhead, pointing out endless room numbers and facilities. Upholstered furniture you'd normally expect in an antique store sat waiting, looking almost as though it had never once seen a person on it, whether said person was waiting for news or an appointment. Fake plants and flowers, unable to wilt and no need for watering, decorated tables that kept small stacks of the latest glossy magazines, and the buzz of voices and machines and far away telephones kept the place from seeming completely still.

It was huge, and must have been bustling somewhere, whether that was in a patient's room, an operating theatre, or even a recreation area, but not in the one part where the Babcock siblings were.

They only had a little company. A gentle clicking bounced and echoed off the walls behind the reception desk, as two receptionists typed up forms and worked from their computers.

They would be the ones to check in with.

"Ready?" Noel asked her, giving her the softest smile he could muster.

"Never been readier," she replied.

It was a lie of course – she wasn't ready to put her whole life on hold for who knew how long, but what other option did she have? It wasn't like she could go away on her own to "live her best life" until the disease killed her. She knew she had little going on for her, but she wasn't quite ready to check out of life.

The possibility was there, yes, but she didn't feel like taking it just yet. If the treatment proved ineffective and the cancer spread, then she'd take it. She wouldn't spend her last months hooked up to IV lines and countless thingamabobs just to buy herself a little extra time. No, if that was the case, she'd say goodbye to everybody and then go off to globetrot for however long she'd have left.

She had it all planned. As best she could, anyway.

All that was left to do was get on with the whole thing. So, she took in what she hoped was a quiet breath and approached the desk.

The nearest receptionist – a brunette with a thin, pale face and glasses – looked up from her work at the new arrivals and welcomed them with a smile.

"Hello; welcome to the New Eden Clinic! How can I help you?"

C.C. nearly felt herself falter and her legs give out as the moment of truth came at last. She looked over at Noel for one last, reassuring look, before facing the future as it was set.

"Hello, I...I'm C.C. Babcock...I'm supposed to check in today."

The receptionist murmured her name, echoing it to herself as she typed something into the computer. She clicked the mouse and smiled brightly at something which appeared on the screen.

"Ah, here you are, Miss Babcock! Your room is already set up and waiting," she pulled a form out from somewhere under the desk. "If you could just fill these out really quickly, I'll call some orderlies to take those cases up and then I'll show you the way there."

Orderlies to take the luggage. This really was a high-end place!

C.C. took the form as the receptionist slid it across the desk. Grabbing a pen, she started to fill it out.

She hovered over a lot of it at first, everything feeling extremely real. Too real, in parts. Some of it was generic enough to scribble in the answer without feeling too bad, but putting down her insurance, in particular, was an awful reminder that something bad needed to happen before that came into play.

And something bad _was_ happening, that could so easily get worse. That was why she was there.

It was both nerve-racking and relieving to hand the form back, and the orderlies arrived soon after to escort her to the room.

"Alright, let me just put these away…" the receptionist said (mostly) to herself.

C.C. watched in silence as the young woman stored her newly completed forms. She supposed they'd later be attached to her medical records, as would every test, bill and study she'd get in the course of the following months. The thought was more than a little depressing, but she supposed there was nothing else to be done but grin and bear it.

"That's better!" the receptionist said cheerfully (perhaps a little too cheerfully…). "Now, let me get you your key."

Then, she reached inside her drawer for a small plastic card (similar to the ones hotels gave out) with the number 55 on it, and swiped it in some sort of card reader before handing it over to C.C..

"It's activated now. Your room is on the fifth floor, facing the Eastern Gardens. Dr Wilson will see you there very soon, Miss Babcock," explained the young woman as she got to her feet and rounded the reception desk. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to it."

Obediently (and after having handed over C.C.'s cases to the two hulk-sized orderlies), both Noel and C.C. walked behind the girl towards the nearby elevators. They were just as luxurious as the rest of the clinic, and C.C. couldn't help but wonder if her room would be just as impressive. She'd seen pictures in the many brochures she and Noel had perused before deciding on hiring New Eden's services, and her accommodations had certainly looked (and sounded) amazing, but reading about it wasn't the same thing as actually seeing everything.

Still, even if reality didn't quite live up to her expectations, how bad could it be? Her room was more like a small apartment after all! It had a living room, a sitting room, a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a walk in closet, another room for whenever C.C. had visitors (aka, Noel) and a sizable balcony. More than enough space for her to spend the next months in as much comfort as was possible, given her condition.

The sense of anticipation continued to build all the way up, reaching its zenith when they finally got to her room's door.

"Well, this is it," the receptionist was still too peppy for C.C.'s liking, but that must've been some sort of pre-treatment euphoria, designed to put patients at ease as they went into what could be the worst part of their lives. "If you need anything else from us, just call using the phone in your room. The numbers are printed out on the laminated paper next to it. There's also a call button for you to request help from your nurses. It's on your nightstand, next to the phone."

She bid them a quick farewell after that, heading back to the front desk and allowing C.C. a moment to breathe and gather herself before she opened the door.

It was _almost_ worth asking if she hadn't died and gone to Heaven; mostly in order to ask if the ginormous, dream-come-true room that had endlessly stretched in front of her, was really and truly hers.

The moment the door opened and they all went inside, she tried setting her eyes on everything – from the warm, welcoming lighting, to the plush rugs that were settled beneath the equally-comfortable furniture, all matched in the smooth ivory of the walls, which were decorated with a number of delicate paintings; they occupied the gaps between the alcoves where empty shelves stood, all ready and waiting for her to fill them with books or assorted mementos.

Alongside the pristine whiteness of the room, there were touches of colour here and there, like the turquoise pillows on the three couches (probably an attempt to give the room a modern vibe), or the gorgeous bouquets inside the room's many vases. Unlike in the reception area, all the coffee tables and end tables were bare of magazines, leaving plenty of room for a patient to bring in what they wanted, at a time which suited them. A large TV took some space by the wall opposite to the sitting area, transforming the room from "hospital space" to "almost a home" in one appliance-based move.

C.C.'s eyes then jumped to a small doorway connected the living room to a smaller sitting room. Inside, the former producer soon discovered, were a comfortable-looking loveseat and two armchairs, all facing an ornate fireplace. To the side, there was a small desk too. Not that she'd be using it very much – it wasn't like she had a job to do or worry about.

Regardless, this place was definitely better than many others C.C. had stayed in throughout her life! So much for the American healthcare system – it was easy enough to see where all the money went...

Seeing as her accommodations had more than lived up to her expectations, she actually insisted on going straight through to see the room she'd be sleeping in.

She tried not to think about what "sleeping" in this hospital bed could also entail. She just wanted to see – was curious to see. _Would_ have to see, eventually.

The room was ready and waiting in the same soft shades of ivory, cream and dove grey that the living area had been, only of course, it was much smaller. A more private, intimate space for her – a place to sleep, and if the safety rails on her large (yet still clearly a hospital) bed were anything to go by, a place to recover. The end tables had been made from fancier wood and painted to match the rest of the place, up to and including the walk-in closet, as it seemed. Those tables included the rolling hospital table, which was stretched out over the bed as though it was ready to serve a non-existent occupant an invisible meal. Another TV faced the bed, and an armchair with a built-in footrest sat nearby, in case someone needed to stretch out. Light drifted in from a doorway which led to a suitably sized balcony (which could also be accessed through the living room), and there were also two more cushioned chairs in a corner by the bed, apparently for guests to sit and talk with her...

C.C. nearly scoffed at the idea of _entertaining _while she was in there, but left it before she could make a single remark. She'd seen that Noel – who'd followed her in behind the orderlies – staring forlornly at the rails on the bed. He was probably wondering how long it would take, before she'd need anything like that...

And the question was only brought forcibly back to the forefront of her mind when she went into the en-suite.

It had clearly been cleaned until it was sparkling, in preparation for her arrival. The freestanding bath was all set up with a row of shampoos, bubble baths and bath salts for her use, and the radiator had thick, fluffy towels hanging neatly on it, so they'd be warm for drying, as well as comfortable.

But what stopped C.C. in her tracks was the shower. Large enough to fit at least three people at once, equipped with countless faucets and shower heads at all heights and two seats ready for someone who didn't have the strength to stand, as well as a number of strategically placed safety rails for said someone to hold onto, if need be.

It would be the first time she'd ever needed to use safety rails, in order to get in and out of a shower…

She didn't really know how to feel about that. Or, if she _did_ know, deep down (as she sometimes did with..._certain things_), she wondered if maybe her mind was blocking it out because it hurt too much.

"Shall we leave your cases in your bedroom or walk-in closet, ma'am?" asked one of the orderlies, bringing C.C. out of her thoughts.

"On my bed, please," she said. "That will make it easier for me to unpack. Oh, and there are three more cases inside the car that need to be brought up."

"I'll deal with that, sister," Noel said, jumping into action. "You stay here and get settled."

Secretly, he wanted a few moments alone to pull himself together – tears were close by, and the last thing he wanted was for C.C. to see him upset. It wouldn't be fair. He'd known it'd be hard, but the realness of it all was…overwhelming. More than he'd thought it would be.

Soon, everyone but the former producer had left the room. She stood still for a few moments, unsure of what she wanted to do. What was she supposed to do, anyway? Unpack, just as if she were on vacation? It didn't feel right. Nothing did anymore.

_That's because things aren't right, you dumbass_, she thought to herself, frowning.

This was it – her life had come to an indefinite halt. The dreaded moment – the moment she'd pushed back for as long as she could – was there, and it had punched her square in the face with unexpected strength. There were no more schedules to follow, no more meetings to hold, no more paperwork to go over, no entertaining bickering to look up to…

There was nothing to look forward to, except recovery – which was still a huge _if_, and would most likely come at the price of endless pain for a few good months.

It was miserable. All of it. No matter how pretty her room was or how luxurious the centre she'd be treated in was, the hard reality was that her very existence was hanging by a thin thread, and there were no guarantees she'd come out the other side still standing. It was a matter of chance now.

Suddenly feeling unsteady on her feet, C.C. sat herself down on the floor and curled into a little ball next to her bed. She wanted out – she wanted this to be a bad dream from which she could wake up. She wished she was back home, slaving away at the office, instead of–

"Feeling miserable already? Well, thank whatever higher power you believe in that you can be blue in here instead of at some underfunded shithole hospital."

The sudden interruption from the unknown voice made C.C. start, her legs sliding back out from underneath her chin as her eyes snapped up to the doorway. She immediately scrambled to her feet at what she saw.

There, in the frame, was a tall, thin man with an angular face and long nose, his dark hair messy and a stubble nearing a full beard covering his chin. He wore a white coat over the top of what appeared to be faded black jeans and a maroon coloured, loose dress shirt. His shoes were smart, but they looked old and worn. It was almost as though a hobo had dressed up in his Sunday best and taken a shot at pretending to work at a hospital for a day.

She must've been staring a while because he then looked over his shoulder, as though exaggeratedly checking if there was someone or something behind him. He then turned his attention back to C.C..

"You must be Miss Chastity-Claire Babcock. I'm Dr Gregory Wilson, your oncologist," he introduced himself with a slight nod of his head. "Is there any part of your first name you'd prefer I called you, or are we more likely to bond over cursing our parents for their sucky name-picking skills?"

C.C. was nearly stunned into silence. _This_ was the man that was going to be her doctor while she was in here...? He already seemed rather..._unorthodox_, to say the least. She'd never once had a doctor before that had implied a patient had a terrible name (even if it was true) or that had called other hospitals shitholes...

But she had to answer him, if this was her doctor. She'd said to herself before about getting started straight away and this couldn't be any more immediate than if she'd sought her doctor out on her own!

This place – staff and all – could be exactly what she needed, couldn't it?

"I, uh...I prefer "C.C.", actually," she replied.

"Huh, C.C. – nicer ring to it I agree. Although, if we spoke Spanish, your name would sound like YesYes, which is rather funny if you ask me," he said as he marched over to her armchair and collapsed into it. "Anyway, that's enough chit-chat for today. Stage 4B Hodgkin's Lymphoma – that's your diagnosis, right?"

C.C. nodded, finding herself unable to articulate a coherent sentence at that moment in time. She'd met strange characters before, but she was on the fence as to whether or not this was some sort of twisted joke.

"Goodie – you have the _I'm-not-completely-fucked _kinda cancer. A pain in the ass, yes, but curable," he explained, reaching into his pocket for a lollipop. "Looks like you are in luck!"

"Excuse me? _Luck_?!" C.C. finally snapped. "I hardly think being sick with cancer qualifies as–"

"You know how many people drop dead every day?" Wilson cut her off as he unwrapped his candy. "150,000 on average. That totals 6,250 dead people every hour. Or 104 dead people every minute. Or almost two people every second. Many were elderly and sick, some others were in their prime when they had a freak accident, or were murdered or flung themselves off the top of a building–"

"And your point is…? I fail to see how other people dying makes my situation better," C.C. barked, arms folding over her chest.

"I'll let that one slide because it's your first day and you don't know the rules yet, but for future reference, never interrupt me," Wilson replied and rolled his eyes. "Anyway, my point is, death is more common than you think. It's lurking around every corner, waiting for the next sucker to drag into eternal darkness, and it doesn't discriminate. Death is greedy and always hungry – that's why dying is easier than living, Babcock, but the odds suggest you probably won't be joining the ranks of the dearly departed anytime soon."

Wilson gave his orange lollipop a satisfying lick, always keeping his eyes on the gaping producer. He often got that reaction out of new patients – he didn't have the best bedside manner, but he was damn good at what he did. That was why they hadn't kicked him to the curb already – he'd single-handedly saved more patients than all of the other doctors combined, and that bought him some freedom to do and say whatever he wanted.

What could he say? Prestige had its perks, didn't it?

"The kind of cancer you have isn't particularly lethal, but it will require an aggressive treatment regime," he explained. "Twelve cycles of chemo for a start, and if that itty-bitty tumour doesn't shrink fast enough, we'll have to consider a bone marrow transplant. All in all, the route is clear. Now, as you may have noticed, I'm a grade A sarcastic asshole – I'm cynical, infuriating, snappy and, in all honesty and with no regrets whatsoever, I joke about stuff I shouldn't. But I can promise you one thing: I'm going to do my best to get you out of this."

C.C. felt her shoulders falling, relaxing, before she could really stop it. Before she felt the rest of her relax, too.

Well, it seemed like Wilson knew what he was doing and talking about...maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all? He wouldn't have been hired by the hospital if he couldn't do his job, anyway, so they at least had some confidence in him. Besides, she could probably request to switch doctors at any time she wanted – which she already knew she would do, the moment she wasn't happy with her treatment.

But, for now, she thought she could safely give Dr Rides-the-Rails a chance.

She nodded at what he had said, "Thank you. I appreciate it, a lot."

Wilson waved a hand dismissively, grabbing a chart out of a holder on the wall, just next to the door.

"Save the sentimental stuff for your relatives. There's only so much love in a room I can stand before I have to break out the Lysol," he said, flicking through the notes quickly, before replacing them back where he had found them. "Now, let's get down to the business of kicking your cancer's ass. How does that sound? A lot more of an "action-hero", "gets results" type?"

C.C. nearly let out a huff of a shocked laugh. This was definitely not what she'd expected in a place like this, but he was right when he'd asked if she was ready to beat this thing.

She was ready to do whatever it took to get her life back to normal. As much as it could, anyway.

"I can see you smiling; I'm going to take that as a yes," Wilson interrupted before she could give a real, verbal answer. "Let's get started, then! But before we do, would you prefer for your brother to stay or leave? Either way is fine by me; I just need to know if I'll be expecting the "tearful farewells between loved ones" scene now, or when he does actually choose to go."

That time, C.C. actually scoffed. Noel was something – someone – she could definitely talk about, with or without being taken by surprise. And it might actually give her an opportunity to look a bit sharper than she'd just come across.

She affected a dismissive wave, much like Wilson's own, "Oh, don't worry about it being tearful – we aren't that type of family. Besides, if we had known the doctor might melt at contact with water, we'd have taken extra precautions anyway."

It was Wilson's turn to be taken aback by what had just been said. He didn't laugh – even if he might have wanted to, a little – but he did let his eyebrows shoot up and he placed his hand over his heart in a show of mock offence, like a scandalised Victorian socialite. He wasn't much used to being spoken to like that, even if he expected it for the way he was to most, if not all, people!

This new patient of his was certainly more used to verbal tennis matches than most of the others he'd treated, he could tell that much for certain! And, as a result, he was also certain that they would get along swimmingly, right from the start.

A lot of his patients were actually put off by his mannerisms at first, which might not have made treatment harder, but it did sometimes make it feel like a more laborious process to begin with. They didn't know how to shoot dialogue back and forth, or to turn something on its head. It made the words seem slower, in his opinion.

Most, if not all, of those patients usually wound up considering him a close friend by the end, though. Somehow, he understood that even less than why they hadn't gotten his sense of humour or his way of behaving in the first place.

"If you being here didn't translate into me getting a big, fat check at the end of the month, I'd have kicked you out of here for that!" Wilson said, smirking.

"Boo-hoo, cry me a fucking river, doc," C.C. shot back, with a smirk that was just as devious as Wilson's. "Let's get this shit show started, shall we? The sooner we do that, the sooner I can get the hell outta here!"

"That's exactly the attitude I like to hear," Wilson said, finishing crunching on the last bit of his lollipop. "You get unpacking, decide if you want your brother in or out and then we can get talking. No sense in killing only one bird with that great big stone we have, is there?"

C.C. pretended to think, before she replied, "I suppose not. And I'd like my brother to stay just a little longer before he has to go."

Wilson shrugged, "Well, don't tell me that – tell him! Is he better at unpacking than you are at making decisions?"

C.C. almost barked out a laugh as she went out of the room, "He's better at unpacking than you are at talking to people!"

Feeling much more relaxed already, in a situation which might not have called for any kind of relaxation at all, the former producer went to find Noel. This might not have been what she'd expected at the start, but she thought she could definitely get used to it. Wilson was the kind of character she was familiar with, it seemed – a smartass, who probably infuriated many even if he was right, and that knew he was right even when other people thought he was wrong.

As long as he was right about her diagnosis and treatment, it didn't really matter to C.C. if other people thought he was wrong. He was there to help her get her life back, not make friends.

Even if she thought she might be able to consider him a friend at the end of all this.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Hello, I apologise in advance for the long AN, but I believe it's necessary. Today is a very important day in my (CCNilesBabcock) country. Today (March 24th), we remember the victims of Argentina's last military dictatorship. The army, while in power, kidnapped and killed thousands of people. The victims are thought to number 30,000. Undoubtedly, it was a dark chapter in our history, and no matter what your political stance may be, state terror can't be condoned or forgiven. They kidnapped people the army believed were dissidents (including PREGNANT women and random people they plucked off the streets), tortured them and, finally, killed them. Many (if not most) of these people's families never knew what happened to them. _Still_ don't know, because the bodies were never found. Furthermore, the children born while their mothers were locked up, were sold off to be "adopted" by other families. Many still don't know the truth of their origins.

The lucky ones went into exile; many died and were never able to come home.

Luckily, we've come a long way since then, and the criminals behind the massacre have been judged and imprisoned, but as my own little gesture of respect to the victims, I have based a character, Marcelo, on them.

"_Nunca Más"_

* * *

_**Chapter 3**_

Marcelo had seen and done too many things in his forty years of life. He'd been born, gone to school, then to university and, just when he'd turned twenty-two, he'd escaped the claws of the bloodiest dictatorship in Argentine history. The 70's had been rough for Latin-America – poverty had been rampant, it was guerrilla fighting galore and, eventually, military dictatorships had taken hold of most Latin-American governments.

If you were lucky and kept your head down, you could hope to lead a somewhat peaceful existence. That's what Marcelo's parents had done and repeated incessantly to himself and all his siblings. They were honest people, hardworking – his mom had been a homemaker, while his dad had owned a small business in Marcelo's hometown.

Neither of them had been able to finish primary school, but they'd made it their goal to ensure that all of their children finished their studies and became someone in life. Being the eldest, Marcelo had always felt the pressure to live up to their expectations – he'd been top of his class in primary school, secondary school and, eventually, medical school.

Ever since he could remember, Marcelo had been fascinated by the idea of saving lives. It had been very clear to him that medicine was his calling so, naturally, after having finished secondary school, he'd enrolled in medical school. It was during this time when he'd started to notice the injustice and cruelty that had ran rampant since the military Junta had overthrown the last constitutional government. Soon, he'd begun speaking to others who'd seen the same things as he had, and together they'd voiced their disagreement.

First, it was in a whisper – a hushed secret that everyone knew about but most refused to denounce. But, as time went by, their combined voice grew. It had to – it spoke for those who couldn't, because their young lives had been cruelly "disappeared", just because they didn't agree with the government.

Marcelo had known it was only a matter of time before they came for him. He hadn't been able to stay quiet anymore, but when the horror finally happened, it hadn't been like he'd imagined.

They'd taken her, not him. They'd taken his Marcela.

They'd taken his first love.

Her body had been one of the few that were recovered. It washed up on the coast of Rio de la Plata. She'd been tortured, and thrown off a helicopter towards a sure death.

She'd been yet another victim of the feared "death flights".

He'd had to run away immediately afterwards. His parents, his beloved parents, hadn't wanted him to share in Marcela's fate, and had help smuggle him across the border and sent him to live with a family friend in America. Ultimately, that had cost them their lives – the military came knocking one night, and when they'd refused to give up his whereabouts, they were shot and killed on the spot. So were his siblings.

The years that followed were hard. Incredibly hard. He'd gone from being a future doctor and having a loving family, friends and a girlfriend, to a simple, unqualified immigrant whom people looked down on due to his accent and skin tone. Bitterness had wreathed itself around his soul like a weed, and it had stayed there for longer than he was proud to admit.

That, of course, had changed when he'd met his wife – Ana. She was a Cuban immigrant, also working whatever odd jobs she could get her hands on and struggling to make ends meet. She'd run away from the regime, and had lost her family too.

He wouldn't say it was love at first sight, the memory of his late girlfriend had weighed down on him, but slowly, she'd helped him let go. She'd helped him heal, and together they'd blossomed. They'd gotten married in a small ceremony at the City Hall, surrounded by the many friends they'd made over the years – friends they'd considered their family. Children had come soon after, and so had more stable jobs and their very own home.

Ana had opened her very own business (a small Cuban diner that New Yorkers, Immigrants and Cuban Americans absolutely adored) and he'd gotten a job as a doorman at a fancy Park Avenue building. It wasn't his dream job, but he actually grew to like it. Not only did it provide a more than stable income for his family, but it also made Marcelo feel like he was helping people – maybe not in the way he'd always wanted, but it was good enough. He carried the elderly tenants' groceries upstairs, kept the entrance nice and clean, collected and delivered his tenants' mail, fed their pets when they were away…

Of course, he couldn't say that he didn't have his favourite tenants – some people he liked helping slightly more than others. People he'd gotten to know better than their neighbours, for one reason or another.

Miss Babcock in the penthouse, for instance. Something about her had always caught his attention, even from the start; maybe it was the fact that she clearly worked hard to earn what she had, or the fact that she was fighting for her place in a man's world and absolutely "killing it", as a lot of Americans were fond of saying. He didn't fully know, all he could say was that something about her was admirable.

It was often a struggle against the tide for her, though. Marcelo could tell that much from the late nights he'd see her come staggering into the building, smelling of bourbon and slurring her words. He hadn't judged her for it, even as he'd helped her into the elevator and made sure that she'd safely gotten into her apartment – he knew better than most that some things were simply too much to deal with, without some sort of comfort. It was obvious she was hurting deeply, for one reason or another, and she clung to what she could in response. That had happened to be her drink.

But that didn't mean Marcelo had simply left her to it. That wouldn't have been right. Instead, he'd kept a closer eye on her where possible, looking out for her and making sure she was alright.

He'd really been put to the rest one day, when she'd come rushing in, barking at someone down her phone and not paying attention to the steps or her own high heels. The inevitable accident had resulted in her falling, twisting her ankle and crying out in pain.

That was when he'd had to spring into action; when it had become clear she couldn't walk on her ankle, he'd insisted on taking her up to the penthouse himself. He'd told her that he'd treat her when they got there, and had asked if she had ice available, as well as bandages.

That, of course, had led to the inevitable question of how he knew what to do. And, being the truthful soul that he was, Marcelo had told Miss Babcock everything on the way up in the elevator. He'd poured out everything about his life before. His hopes for medical school. The regime. What had happened to his family and the people he'd loved...

He hadn't dwelled too much on each detail – it was easy enough to get lost in despair. Too easy, given the circumstances. But Miss Babcock had been sorry, for everything he'd faced, and apparently deeply touched.

Once she'd gotten settled on her couch, he had fetched her some ice and performed a basic check-up on the area she'd said hurt. It had turned out to be a bad sprain, so the ice and a roll of bandages he'd found in the bathroom had come in handy.

She'd thanked him profusely for helping her with her ankle, before he'd left. He had thought that that would be the end to it, but it wasn't. From that moment on, he'd seen more generous tips coming from her. She'd managed a smile of a greeting, even on days when she was clearly upset. She'd even sent his family food, presents and cards at Christmas, and even more food at Thanksgiving for the last few years.

She hadn't drunk so much since then, either. Whether knowing that someone was watching and looking out for her was making her feel better, or whether something else had happened that had made her stop, he didn't know. All that mattered was that she was clearly looking after herself a little more.

It had shocked him to his core to find out that she was having to go away to receive treatment for cancer.

He'd tried to express his sympathies, but she wasn't having too many of them. She wasn't the sort to enjoy pity (even if that word had so many negative connotations he didn't feel). So much so, she'd actually made him swear to keep it a secret from anybody who asked!

Marcelo had obvious agreed, because she'd asked, but it didn't feel entirely right. Surely she had more loved ones around her that deserved to know, but that she hadn't told? He knew from experience that trying times were meant to be overcome together, not apart.

It wasn't his place to say, though. Miss Babcock called the shots in her fight against cancer, and if his silence would make it easier on her, then he'd keep quiet. After all, she was well-known around the city. It was more than likely that some underhanded tabloid would send reporters snooping. Tabloids were always keen on getting their next dirty little secret to publish.

Luckily for him (and, by extension, Miss Babcock) no reporters had come to the building. No one had even mentioned her sudden disappearance! It might have been too soon for them to have raised the alarm, but Marcelo appreciated the quiet.

It didn't last too long on this particular occasion, however. He was sat looking over the security monitors again when a very familiar frame caught the corner of his eye as it walked through the front doors, into the lobby.

Even at a slight glance, he would always recognise Niles, the Sheffield family's butler. He was practically a staple feature of Miss Babcock's day-to-day life; the producer brought him up in conversation whenever she had time to stop and chat, which struck Marcelo as "odd", considering she was supposed to have found him the most irritating man on the planet...

When she wasn't talking about the butler, he was often to be found driving her home, too. He'd come in for a while whenever that happened, and Marcelo would get the privilege of witnessing their verbal sparring matches. It was a special kind of dance – much like a catch-and-release game a cat would play with a mouse. A mixture of wanting and being so close to having, but enjoying the game so much, they would always let go.

It was hard to tell who was the cat and who was the mouse, sometimes. Marcelo wasn't convinced they knew, either, it swapped so often.

All he really knew was that the butler longed for it to end, in one very particular way. He could tell, when he saw the man look at her, when the producer wasn't watching. It reminded him of the way he'd looked at his own Ana, before they had been miraculously brought together; it was a longing, or an adoration, and it was held back from being acted on by fear.

Most likely of what would happen if he tried to end the game.

It was typical that he would be the first of the Sheffield household to come looking for her. None of them knew where she had gone or why – she'd told him so herself – and that would obviously be too much for the butler to handle.

Marcelo smiled up at him as he approached the desk, noting the butler's agitated look as he came further in.

"Hello, Niles. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Hello, Marcelo – I'm here to see Miss Babcock. Can you let her know I'm on my way up?" Niles said as he rushed past Marcelo and towards the lifts. "Tell her I won't take a no–"

"Niles, you can't go up!" Marcelo cut him off, making an effort to catch up with the butler. "Miss Babcock is not home."

"I'll wait until she comes back then," Niles insisted – it wasn't the first time he'd had to wait for someone, and he'd gladly do it if it meant seein- _zinging_ Babcock at the end of it. "I have all the time in the world."

"No, Niles, you don't understand! Miss Babcock isn't home and won't be coming home any time soon. She's left, and hasn't said where to or when she'll be back!"

Niles' face fell, and so did everything inside him (not that he would openly admit that). Miss Babcock was...gone?

She was gone. Disappeared into the aether without so much as a word on the matter?!

Even the very thought was leaving his head reeling. Every piece of information he had was trying to fit together, but they were all like differently sized pieces of unfinished, unmatching jigsaw puzzles. He couldn't understand it! Why had she just upped and left like that? How did nobody know about it?! What had happened that meant she'd purposefully left them all in the dark?

"She...she hasn't?" he asked quietly, trying to hold himself together.

Marcelo gave him an apologetic look, "It could be any length of time at all."

Niles stumbled backwards, catching himself just before he went too far.

No matter what was going on in his head, it was silenced by the thought he had next. That was that, wasn't it? Miss Babcock truly wasn't home. Not just "not at home to visitors or soliciting salesmen", but truly off and away somewhere else. And nobody knew where that was – not himself, not Mr Sheffield...

Had she told anybody at all where she'd gone? It was almost as though she had planned to disappear off the face of the Earth, leaving only minor clues as to when she would do it.

But he supposed that didn't much matter, if she didn't want him – anybody she hadn't told – to know. She would have made it known herself if she did, and wouldn't have left the grownup equivalent of a sad, dead-end Easter egg hunt as a method of communicating her whereabouts.

He'd just have to tell Mr Sheffield what Marcelo had told him.

Thanking the doorman, he started to make his exit. He'd left the car in the parking garage and would be..._wait a moment_...

How could he have forgotten about it?! How could he be such a bloody fool?! _He had a magnetic key for the residents' section of the parking lot_. It was there, in his pocket, alongside the spare key to her apartment that Miss Babcock had given him, in case he needed to get into the building whenever he drove her home. He'd lost count of the times he'd had to help her carry stuff up to her penthouse, from groceries to stacks of important documents!

He could actually access the parking lot, and the private elevator to the apartments from there as well!

He could...well, not break into the penthouse, but he could always go up and take a look around, couldn't he? There might be something that would help him determine where Miss Babcock was...

And having that would be better than going back to the mansion with nothing.

In barely five minutes, Niles had made his way back to the parking lot, slipped into the resident's section and then into the elevator. He practically punched in her floor's button, heart hammering away in his chest and beads of sweat forming in his hairline.

What would he find when he made it up? An empty apartment with nothing in it? Stuff she hadn't wanted to take with her in boxes? A clue as to where she'd run off to, without even saying goodbye…?

That was what bothered him the most – her having upped and gone just like that, without saying so much as a peep his- _their_ way. She'd been in their lives for well over a decade! She'd helped build Mr Sheffield's success, she'd become an ever-present presence at the mansion. She'd become his favourite pastime…

And yet she'd left.

He didn't understand. It didn't make any sense – it went against everything he knew about her. He would have never imagined that she'd concede defeat to him, because disappearing overnight was just that: surrender. He'd often joked about her going away; it was a part of their game, and she'd always come back for more after each verbal battle. What had changed now? What had pushed her to go away…? What had happened between the last time he'd see her and their last phone call?

She'd been upset, that was for certain, but what could it be? He'd zinged her as he always did – business as usual. Had he, perhaps, overstepped a line? It seemed implausible…

Cruel pranks and knife-sharp zingers were their normal, so why would she have been bothered by it?

He didn't know. He couldn't tell – and that bothered him, too. He'd always been able to tell before now; they had an unspoken language that ran between the two of them.

Or, at least, he'd thought that they'd had that. Now he wasn't so sure. And even if he often openly admitted that he was wrong, declaring that he was wrong in any capacity which involved Miss Babcock felt like he was giving in.

He supposed it still wasn't over, in his mind. It wouldn't be, until he got up there and found out what her apartment looked like. He could still see the boxes in his mind's eye – packed and ready to go, overflowing with things he'd seen around the place. Things he'd seen her using. Maybe a few things he'd seen her wearing, too...

He disliked the entire thought immensely, even as it creeped up on him, while he made his way along the corridor to the front door of the penthouse.

Her spare key still fit when he got there, luckily. No one had been around to fit new locks just yet, or change the place in any way his fears hadn't yet imagined...

And when he opened the door, he opened it to a familiar sight. The producer's penthouse was unchanged and untouched. The cushions on the seats in the living area were crumpled in from where they'd last been sat on. Dust covered all the surfaces in a fine layer. The rug by the door was slightly folded over at the corner, from where someone had kicked it while leaving in a hurry...

Chester hadn't come running to bark at whomever was at the door, either. That probably meant she had taken him with her, wherever she'd gone, instead of just getting someone to feed and walk him while she was away...

Marcelo had said he didn't know when she was coming back. But the dog being gone didn't bode well for it being any time soon.

The place felt more empty and more desolate the more he looked around it, even though technically nothing had changed. He still couldn't wrap his head around it – what had happened to make her go? To leave everything just as it was, take her dog and apparently flee into the night without telling...most people...where she was going?

Was she in some kind of trouble? He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had popped up. That didn't seem like Miss Babcock at all – not any kind of trouble that she couldn't talk, bribe or fight her way out of, anyway. The woman was made of steel even on her worst days, and that ruled out running away from something (or someone) he knew she could handle.

What could possibly be so bad, that she hadn't been able to stand and face it? Was that even what the problem was?

Niles wished he knew. The guessing was starting to make his head hurt.

It wasn't all that was starting to hurt, either. Deep in his chest, it felt like it was caving in. With every breath he took – no matter how fast or shallow it was, and both were increasing at a rapid pace – part of it crumbled away a little more, until he had to sit down just so he didn't collapse in tears.

But what would it matter, if he did? It wasn't like anybody would find him.

Especially not Miss Babcock. She was gone, really gone, and he was left there alone. She'd walked out of his life without so much as a "See you later, Butler Boy" and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He let his head fall into his hands, his entire body weighed down by invisible bricks and his mind racing even more than it had been mere seconds ago.

What was he going to do now? What could he do? He didn't even know where to start, if his mind was even entertaining the idea of looking for her!

It was like being at a dark crossroads, signs pointing in all different directions, but none of them told him the way he wanted to go. They all gave him mocking clues, at best, or were just blank, at worst. And he had to go in some direction, but he didn't even know the direction he'd come from, anymore!

All he knew was that Miss Babcock was out there somewhere, and he had to pick a bloody direction before long.

She could move out of reach forever, if he didn't do something - anything - soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It'd taken a few days to acclimatise to her new surroundings, but C.C. thought she'd managed it fairly well.

The facilities had almost been a godsend and a blessing, in her mind. Considering where she was and why she was there, obviously, and no offence to anybody. She hadn't gotten too settled into anything at first, much like a guest in a hotel might not unpack their bags, but the longer she remained where she was, the more she had to let go of whatever was holding her back.

That was when she'd taken the leap to visit as much of the place as she was allowed to see. And what she'd seen had been amazing; the place had had everything she'd ever imagined a retreat – whether for health or recreation – could. She'd explored the library, the music room, a dining hall, seen the tennis courts and outdoor pool from the window, seen the indoor pool from its own door, and seen the one-room movie theatre the place had! The place even had a small spa attached!

And all around, patients were making the most of it all, their various levels of sickness showing through paler skin, or more sunken eyes, or shaved heads covered by clean, fresh bandanas and headscarves...

C.C. didn't need to look at them too carefully to know she'd soon be joining them more fully. She knew it was too real to hold on to the idea of leaving for now, even if it hurt; she had to let go and just embrace it all at some point.

It was only a matter of time – Wilson had already decided on her treatment plan and there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that she was going anywhere any time soon. Not when she'd have to go through eight cycles of chemotherapy, which meant spending at least eight months at the clinic.

That could easily turn into more if a bone marrow transplant was required...

She'd only need that if the tumour didn't shrink, Wilson had said.

Part of her had wanted to pipe up and ask what would happen if the transfer didn't work either, but she'd ungracefully chickened out before the question could find its way to her mouth.

Her way to recovery had started almost two weeks ago, with one minor procedure – well, Wilson had said "minor", but having a doctor cut her open (even a little bit) hardly came across as "minor" in her mind. Still, it had been necessary.

Given that her treatment was going to be a long one, Wilson had decided that the best course of action was for her to get a central line through which the chemo would be administered. Hence the operation. The thing, he'd explained, avoided the need for her to get a new IV every time she had her treatment (that is to say, every two weeks). The operation hadn't been painful, but since the central line – or port, as Wilson usually called it – had been placed near a large vein in the upper chest, there was now a more than noticeable bump just beneath her right clavicle.

Not that it had stopped there. Afterwards, there had been the x-rays and other, post-op things to think about. And that was just to get her started, which was its own, glorious thought.

In truth, it made her feel sick just thinking about it. Sick to have to pump chemicals through her body for over half a year, in order to flush out a deadly disease growing inside her. Sick to know that it would make her sicker first, to the point where she'd be in so much pain...

Sick to know that there was a chance that it was all useless anyway.

Wilson never seemed to think it was useless, though. At least, he never acted like he did. He had been visiting her daily ever since she'd arrived, apparently in order to be his usual asshole of a self, and to engage in some zinger-based wordplay. He always claimed to have won all the rounds, too, even when it was obvious that his comebacks were lame or strained!

If she was being perfectly honest, that one thing – the wordplay – was the one sense of normalcy she was clinging to, while everything else was put on pause (as strange as that all felt). It was a moment from her old life, brought into a new chapter that she was hastily trying to write as she went along and praying it wasn't the ending.

Granted, it didn't feel or sound as good or right as the banter she usually threw at..._some other people_...but she was happy for the company. It might not have been what she was used to or expected, but it was far better than sitting in that room alone with only her thoughts for friends.

With friends like those, a woman didn't need enemies, that much she could tell anybody.

Not that she could tell anybody else anyway. That rule of hers still stood; she kept her guard up where possible. But she only tended to use it when somebody wanted to know something specific, and specifically personal.

And there was nobody who needed to know anything specific about her, personal or much otherwise.

That's why she'd mostly kept away from the other patients – the last thing she needed was bonding over their shared sucky health. Thankfully, most people seemed to keep themselves to themselves, but there still were opportunities for socialisation that a fair amount of patients took to help pass the time – from art, cooking or music classes, to a book club. C.C. had actually been invited to join the latter by one of the other patients on one occasion when she'd been reding in the clinic's library, but she'd declined.

She wasn't there to make friends. She was there to get better and that was it. Not to mention, everybody in there belonged to her same social class – that was to say, the American elite, which in turn meant that there was a possibility of someone in there also frequenting the same social circles that she did. Who knew what could happen if she got overly chummy with her fellow patients?

If anyone found out about what had happened to her, C.C. knew her rotten luck would be the talk of all the New York harpies ; her so-called "_friends_", who were nothing but vipers cloaked in ridiculously expensive clothing. If she knew them (and she did), C.C. was certain they would feast on her misery and create all kinds of outrageous rumours about her disease, her appearance and chances of survival.

Thanks, but no thanks…

She was better off on her own – she only needed to hang in there for maybe a year, and then she'd be able to go back to her usual life. She'd simply tell everybody that she'd taken a year off to live the jet-set lifestyle and relax, and dodge any uncomfortable or prying questions that came her way. She didn't need to be pitied or talked about, so this was the perfect way out.

As for her future work prospects, she supposed she'd have to take up her father's offer of stepping in as the new CEO of the family business. Stewart wanted to retire, and since she doubted Maxwell would give her back her job after the way she'd run off, it seemed like the best option. Not to mention that she'd make a lot more money than she currently did. Well… she'd make a lot more money than she used to, back when she was still working.

But, for any of that to happen, she had to get through this mess. Her first challenge would come in…about fifteen minutes, judging by the time displayed on the digital clock sitting on her nightstand – her first chemo dose…

She'd say she wasn't looking forward to it, if that wasn't a given to literally everybody. Who the hell looked forward to those kinds of things, unless they were a complete and utter sadist?

C.C. wasn't sure. She didn't know much about it, really, apart from what Wilson had told her and the horror stories she'd heard from friends of friends from their own acquaintances. She didn't know how true those last ones were, but they'd sounded real enough and that, in turn, had been enough to leave her nearly sleepless the night before.

It was bad enough getting up to breakfast, let alone after a night like that. She hadn't been hungry at all, but she'd forced herself to take one slice of toast and a black coffee. Wilson had insisted that she try to have something, in order to keep her strength, but he had also found out through a series of tests that she was allergic to the nausea meds they would've usually put her on right after. That meant post-chemo puking, and probably lots of it. As such, she'd tried to limit the ammo her stomach would have.

She had almost been afraid that she would lose it the moment she got back to her room, the way it had churned around in there on her walk down the corridor from the dining hall...

Somehow, she had kept it. She'd made it back to her bed, where she now was, and had been trying to lie comfortably and read a book to pass the time. And maybe relax by distracting herself a little bit.

Not that she could. When the worry was the size of a whale, you weren't going to catch it on a fishhook.

She'd barely gotten started on whatever she'd picked up from the bookshelf when a knock on the door told her that Wilson had arrived.

"C.C...! Your nine o'clock is here. Are you ready to kick this cancer's ass like a jerk who tried to start fistfight in a bar?" he announced loudly – because of course he did – before clearing his throat. "Not that that ever happened to me..."

C.C. thought she heard a small, slight scuffle outside the door and wondered if Nurse Cameron had elbowed him in the ribs.

It wouldn't have been the first time she'd done something to show her colleague that she was less than impressed by his laissez-faire attitude towards the words that fell out of his own mouth. Ever since Wilson had introduced C.C. and Cameron, who was to be her personal nurse for the duration of her stay at the clinic, the former producer had noticed that the doctor's antics were never completely ignored when they were aimed at the pretty, quick and clever brunette.

And it was never just a one-off remark every now and again, either. The two colleagues went back and forth between each other practically all the time, whether they were in front of patients, or – as the case was at the moment – just out in the corridor and presumably alone.

It was like they had some sort of game going on between them – just the two of them, and every round always seemed to end on an eye-roll or a retorted remark from the nurse.

Yet, much to both C.C.'s confusion and her amusement, it never seemed to get to Wilson in the slightest.

It was a different type of game to the one Wilson had with her, and some of his other patients (the ones he'd told her about). It reminded her very much of...of times she thought she'd rather not think about, if she was going to do this. There wasn't much point in going backwards, when the only way to get better (and to hurt less, as much as possible) was to focus on going forwards.

"I'm in the bedroom," she called out, putting down her useless attempt at passing the time, also known as Pride and Prejudice. "Just come straight through, you can't miss me."

She heard two sets of shoes – and a few sets of wheels, as though someone was pushing a couple of small tables around – make their way across the floor, and Wilson poked his head around the door as Cameron edged her way past him into the room, greeting C.C. with a quick smile as she went. As much as C.C. knew she'd need her strength, and therefore didn't want to throw up what little breakfast she'd had, it was impossible to ignore the assorted set of instruments, needles and bottles of medication on the table that Cameron pushed in with her, setting it up by C.C.'s bedside table.

She thought she'd felt bad the day before, when they'd given her a blood test to make sure her cells were at a safe level before they tried the treatment. But that memory might as well have been a picnic in the park now. It was starting, and it was starting properly.

That was only emphasised when Cameron brought in an infusion pump, wheeling it across the room to bring it over to the non-crowded bedside.

It loomed there over C.C., somehow a terror and, as she knew, her saviour at the same time. But she held that thought in; this was better than the alternative, no matter what was coming.

"Well, now that's done. Good morning, C.C.," the nurse turned away from her handiwork and smiled at the former producer brightly, taking the chart from its holder on the wall as she went past. "How are you feeling today?"

The more cynical part of C.C. often wondered how people could even ask that question in times like this. But, she also knew that Cameron was just trying to be friendly, really, and would never mean anything by it.

"Mostly fine," the former producer replied, getting herself sat more upright. If they were getting this show on the road, she was going to play her part in it. "Just...the usual nervousness, I guess..."

"Completely natural and understandable," Wilson piped up, finally coming in now that all the equipment was in the room and out of the way. "But there is nothing to worry about, I can tell you that much. Nurse Cameron is nothing if not a consummate professional; I'd let her stick those needles in me, if I needed them."

C.C. huffed out a breath through her nose. It was about as much amusement as she could muster up, given what was about to happen.

Wilson would've had to have been blind to not notice he wouldn't be getting anything else out of her right at that moment, so he just nodded, offered as much of a smile as he ever wore and took the notes from Nurse Cameron, who had offered them after finishing checking them herself.

"You'd have plenty of people volunteering to stick you with needles, Dr Wilson; you wouldn't need to be sick," she teased, before gesturing towards C.C. and her position on the bed. "Don't worry yourself about sitting up – lie back, open your shirt so we can see where the port is and make yourself comfortable while I just go wash my hands."

C.C. did as she was told, her hands feeling oddly numb as she pushed herself back against her pillows and the rest of her bed, and not letting up as she fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. By the time she'd managed to prepare herself and get as comfortable a position as she'd ever find on one of these occasions, Cameron had come back and had pulled the table set out with medical equipment closer.

She quickly inspected the obvious bump in C.C.'s skin, peering at it carefully and talking to Dr Wilson as she went.

"No obvious redness, swelling or drainage," she said quietly, looking quickly over her shoulder as Wilson noted it down. "Looks like we're good to go."

C.C. took in a deep breath. She didn't feel "good to go", but it wasn't as if there was any going back. And Cameron was clearly trying her best to be as gentle about it as she could be.

"I'm going to have to feel the area around the central line now," she said, circling the air near the bump with her finger. "You just tell me if it hurts, or if you feel any discomfort."

"Okay," C.C. bit down on the inside of her lip and waited for Cameron to begin her work.

The nurse carefully started to feel around the area the port had been inserted – the little bump that C.C. couldn't help being aware of constantly, no matter what she was doing. This part, at least, didn't feel as bad as she was expecting – Cameron's fingers were gentle and didn't poke, stab or prod like so many doctors C.C. had been to in her life. Had she not been so hyperaware of her location and situation, she might've even considered chatting.

Eventually, after confirming with her patient that she hadn't been hurt or made uncomfortable by the inspection at all, Cameron found what she was looking for – the point where the non-coring needle would be inserted. That was where the chemicals would be pumped into C.C.'s body. And then the treatment part that everybody had once heard about, or knew about, or felt worried about would begin.

"That's what we were looking for," Cameron said, apparently to herself more than anybody else, and she took her hand away to put on a pair of latex gloves pulled from a small box on the table. "Now it's time for the alcohol."

"Hey, no getting my patient drunk just yet," Wilson called out, feigning a warning as he looked up from the chart again. "The first round is specially on me. It'll be a gift, C.C., after you've beaten this thing."

Cameron rolled her eyes, turning from him to the producer.

"Meanwhile, in the world where the rest of us know I was talking about rubbing alcohol, I will get that ready now," she smiled, probably aching to fire some sort of harder zinger back at her colleague. "I'll be opening the central line kit soon, C.C. – did you want a mask for that?"

The producer agreed to the mask, which was given to her once Cameron had opened a pack and put on her own. The nurse then swabbed the general area around C.C.'s central line with cool, clear alcohol that filled the small air space with the sharp, penetrating smell of disinfectant.

The smell of a place where people were cured, the producer hoped.

When the cleaning had finished and all the swabs had been thrown in the trash, Cameron washed her hands and changed her gloves again. Had she been feeling less nervous and in more of a commentary mood, C.C. might've felt compelled to talk about (and say she was impressed by) the obvious take-no-chances attitude of the place. Ironically, that description was almost the complete opposite of the words she'd use to openly talk about Wilson.

Even the thought of banter she knew she'd make a note of for the future wasn't enough to make her relax, though. Not when Cameron then opened the container that C.C. just knew had the needle inside it, letting the little piece of equipment fall out onto a prepared sterile towel.

"Time to get this filled; then we'll get you on your pump," the nurse said, giving a comforting smile as she picked the needle up. "Are you feeling okay so far?"

The answer C.C. wanted to give was so different to the one she knew she had to (like she had a choice, either way!), she was almost surprised that the nurse had asked. After all, how many people came through the doors, to this moment, were asked that question and said "Totally fine" while meaning it?

That being said, she nodded again and just let Cameron get on with her task. She wasn't going to watch all of it, of course – just the parts she was curious about. And that meant watching while the nurse gingerly filled the syringe with saline, quickly priming it and cleaning it out again to get it ready for its next task. It couldn't have any air in there whatsoever, if they were hoping to help anybody at all.

The next task for the nurse was to use said needle to inject a local anaesthetic. C.C. flinched a little while it was done, but the nurse patiently explained that it would take less time to take effect, than gel anaesthetics swabbed on. It made it more efficient, and would be just as powerful against pain.

It would need it, too, for what was coming next.

The former producer couldn't bear to do anything but turn away when Cameron's fingers then put pressure down on the port.

C.C. didn't want to see it go in. She had never once been anything less than put off by needles, and the one for her anaesthetic had been bad, but the thought of this one was even worse. It was bad enough having what she could feel of the large, dulled needle pushing its way through her skin, into her veins, its odd, numb ache and the cool of the metal making her want to squirm and groan, but staying as still as she could manage nevertheless.

She didn't dare look back until she felt a slight tug on her body, and turned to see Cameron pulling back the syringe, confirming it was correctly inserted.

It might have bothered the former producer less, if that hadn't meant making sure the pull back drew blood into the syringe. And she couldn't tell if the whole thing was made better or worse by Cameron taking yet another alcohol swab to the area, before covering the whole thing with a large bandage made of what looked like clear plastic.

If C.C. had thought it was difficult to ignore the area before...

Nurse Cameron, however, seemed satisfied. She was busy sticking the bandage down and preparing to write a date and time on it.

"Perfect! Now, let's get you connected to the pump..."

C.C. was only just about listening at that point. She was almost entirely preoccupied with staring at the point where the port was connected to the needle.

She had been connected to IVs before in her life, but even looking at this new drip she was attached to felt different to any other. This was the beginning of a treatment she'd never thought she'd ever experience in her life – it was far removed from the usual fluids and other routine things that doctors normally insisted on. It was going to do things to her body that she absolutely dreaded, but that she knew she had no choice but to accept.

And that made her feel as small as knowing she had the cancer in the first place.

Nurse Cameron didn't make any comment about the lack of reply. She just smiled in understanding, and left the former producer's side to go to the delivery device. She began pressing buttons that C.C. couldn't quite see, but she looked over at her patient every once in a while. She tried offering her the most reassuring looks she could, too. The kind that were meant to say everything was going to be okay, even if it would take a long time.

"We're going to get you started on the first of your fluids now, okay?"

C.C. thought she might've never felt less like saying "okay" in her life, but she nodded anyway. Then, deciding it might be best not to watch as the whole thing started, she turned her head back towards the room and closed her eyes.

She heard the machine start to hum as the pump got working, before Cameron's voice cut in over it.

"Just think; this'll only get easier the longer it goes on. It'll be part of the routine in no time at all."

Wilson chimed in at that point as well, "Yeah, it'll be just as easy as listening to my dulcet tones, just like you are right now. You feeling anything there, C.C.? Any aches or pains we should know about before we let it go on?"

Well, that was one thing that she hadn't had to experience yet. Not even as the fluids started making their way in – she'd expected some kind of burning, or stinging, or whatever else an unfamiliar liquid could possibly do when entering a person's body. Not any of it, even if she thought about it as hard as possible.

"Only pain around here right now is the one who's talking to me," she muttered to him jokingly. "You're nearly on par with Niles..."

She heard the doctor's shoes scuff against the floor as he came to a quick halt, and C.C.'s stomach tightened in a way which had nothing to do with the chemotherapy.

Her eyes shot open to Wilson's curious, quizzical look.

"Who's Niles?" the doctor asked with more than a mild interest, coming to rest his hands on the board at the end of her bed. "I don't think I've ever heard you mention that name before...no, in fact, I'm pretty much certain that you've never mentioned it. So, who is he?"

C.C. swallowed lightly. The part about the butler had just slipped out; she hadn't meant to bring him up at all! She had no reason to, either – if she was doing this, the life she'd had before was over. She'd already made it over by quitting her job and leaving her apartment!

So...so maybe that meant it was okay to tell Wilson just a little of what had happened before? It wasn't as though he was going to let up about it if she said nothing. And if it was all over, there was no chance of any of it coming back to bite her where it hurt.

"He...he was the butler, from where I worked before coming here," she said, forcing herself to let it out. "And he used to take enormous delight in being a complete pain in my ass..."

"I'm liking this guy already," Wilson said, smirking. "Sounds like he and I would get along just swimmingly."

"He could give you a run for your money, you know? I thought I was a smartass until I met him – the man might be a useless lump of a servant, but he sure knows how to banter." C.C. said, chuckling in spite of herself.

She hadn't been thinking about Niles much – she was making a conscious effort not to. She'd been somewhat surprised that bantering with him was probably one of the things she missed the most about her old life. She'd enjoyed their little games. It was only now that she realised just how much…

Still, no matter how much fun bantering with Niles had been, it was over. There was no place for that in her current situation, especially when the thought of him finding out about her illness was so… anxiety-inducing. It could go two ways – one, he could be unaffected by it, and make some sharp comment about her uneventful life coming to an end. Or two, he could be upset.

Honestly, she didn't know which option she dreaded the most. Bastard Niles she could handle – she'd been doing that for over a decade – but worried Niles? She was out of her depth there.

Even the thought of it made her feel like she was drowning, so she quickly put it out of her head before she started to panic.

No, everything to do with her life from before – including the butler – was best left in the past. As much as it killed her to admit that she was inept at something, she knew she couldn't handle...whatever it was that would happen if she tried to tell.

Not that Wilson knew anything about any of this. His curiosity and interest had only seemed to deepen as she'd spoken.

"So you're friends with this guy?"

C.C. quirked an eyebrow at the doctor. No one had ever...no one had ever actually asked her that before, and the question kind of threw her a little bit. But only for a moment. It didn't take her long to come back to her senses and let the logical path take over.

Of course she and Niles weren't friends; how could they be? What with all the hurtful insults and pranks that had passed between them...

Granted, they'd had their moments over the years and the zingers could be fun sometimes, but at the end of the day, they both knew what they were. Enemies. Rivals. That was why everything always went back to the way it was. It must have been – hence the usual presence of bastard Niles...

"No," she replied to Wilson, the word coming out harsher (more defensive?) than planned. "We...we might've had some fun, yeah - but it was bantering fun! And of course, that kind of fun had some...some real moments. But it was all based on pranks, and zingers! Tossed insults – not unlike what you do, might I add – only these came fresh every day! It was like we'd based our entire lives around it; or, at least one of us had. But it was only a little bit of daily wordplay, or maybe hiding personal objects around the house It...didn't mean being friends..."

"What did it mean then?" Wilson asked, quirking an eyebrow.

C.C. opened her mouth to give an answer, but immediately closed it. She had realised it wasn't really so much of an answer as more a defence mechanism; she had been about to say that it wasn't any of Wilson's business anyway, and that it was all in the past so it didn't matter. None of it did matter, obviously (she had to live in the here and now, and the butler was neither of those), but she could tell that her doctor wasn't the kind of guy who'd just let it go.

He'd keep on pushing, until she had a lack of better judgement and told him everything.

Besides, it wasn't as though there was anything left to tell, was there? She'd practically run Wilson through hers and Niles' entire personal history, at this stage! All she'd missed out on, was what she'd call him...

And she had to say that out loud, before Wilson got too comfortable in that smug-but-curious expression he was wearing.

"It meant that we had our moments, but we were not friends," she insisted. Not too hard, she thought. "And now, it's all come to an end, and I'm here."

She figured she might as well throw that last point in as a hint that she was done talking about it.

Unfortunately, Wilson immediately plucked it out, like it was a piece of trash he'd just seen somebody toss on the ground. Or a gauntlet signalling the start of a challenge.

"Yes, you are here...talking rather fondly, even as you hammer in the points about the pranks and insulting, about a man you won't even refer to as a friend..."

C.C. clamped down on the frustrated scowl that was threatening to form on her face. She should've known better than to think Wilson would leave it just because she had no more to say on the matter.

But he wasn't going to get any more of an answer than he'd already gotten. Whatever he thought, he didn't know better than her about her and Niles. Not that she would ever refer to them as a pair like that, even if she were inclined to talk more.

She'd said it was over, and it was. She was there now, and Niles was in the past. It wasn't like she missed him, either, and she was damn sure he wouldn't be missing her twice as hard. He'd probably thrown some kind of party, the day when it had sunk in that she really wasn't coming back...

But even that didn't matter, she told herself. Why should it? It was all in the past, after all. She didn't have to feel anything for it or about it.

Now, if she could only convince Wilson to leave it alone, she could get on with the rest of what was going to be a difficult enough day as it was.

"Of course I won't call him that, because he wasn't," she replied, the sharpness honed in her tone. "He was just...another fixture of that house. But it doesn't matter anymore. It's not like I'll be seeing the place again, anyway..."

With that said, she turned away from the doctor, towards where Nurse Cameron was checking on the fluid line and the machine attached.

That had to be enough to at least put off his conversation, didn't it?

"You could always go back after all of this is over," Wilson (annoyingly) said. "You won't be sick forever."

"We don't know that yet," C.C. replied, still making an effort not to look in Wilson's direction. "And, as I said before, it's over – whatever weird thing we had going on, it's gone now, and he probably did a backflip when he realised he wouldn't be seeing my face again."

"Wouldn't count on that, Babs – you do have quite a riveting face, if I may say so myself – but have it your way," said the doctor in an I-know-better-than-you kind of way. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it. You have a good four hours to go – I'll come to check on you every hour or so. If you need anything, holler. You know the drill."

C.C. rolled her eyes at the doctor, but said nothing as he left, smiling in an infuriatingly familiar way that did nothing to help her push a certain blue-eyed pest out of her mind.

She immediately snapped out of it, but it disturbed her to no end that she simply could not bring herself to lock him out of her mind completely. The fact that thinking of him upset her more than thinking about her old job or even Maxwell was also worrying, but C.C. knew better than to open that can of worms.

She couldn't afford to question herself or think too deeply about her emotional state. That's why she'd refused the psychological assistance the hospital had offered her.

And she wasn't about to go back on her own word or feelings on the matter. Whatever she thought about any of it, that crap all stayed inside. It wasn't anybody else's business and it wasn't a problem if she didn't make it one.

There was really only one way to do that: think about literally anything else. Which, luckily right now, she thought she could do.

Especially as Cameron had just come over to ask her something.

"I've set you up with your medication, that will all work automatically. As Dr Wilson said, you have about four hours now – would you prefer I stayed or left for a while?"

C.C. was already more than certain that she wanted to be alone right then. So, her answer was clear.

"I'll be alright by myself, thank you."

The nurse nodded, "Okay, then. Is there anything you need before I go?"

The former producer thought for a moment. She had four hours to kill right now, but it wasn't as though she could move. So, entertainment was limited to a couple of choices. But she decided on the one she could sit back and read to.

"Could you turn the radio on as you go, please?"

Cameron smiled in return, "Of course."

She went over to the little machine and fiddled around with the dial, switching it to a station playing a song.

It wasn't a song C.C. knew, but it was as good as any other to sit and try not to think too deeply about...anybody, to as she grabbed her nearest book and saw the door get pulled to as Cameron left the room.

"_She told me she was hollow,_

_That's far from what I see -_

_She's more than just the daughter of a broken mind to me..."_

* * *

"_She told me she was shallow;_

_Her rivers run so deep -_

_If I could only be the boat that leads her to the sea..."_

Every surface in the Sheffields' kitchen was gleaming by this stage, as Niles finished up the last of his cleaning there. The radio had made for...well, at least some company, while he'd been doing his work. He'd had it on all morning, to keep the kitchen from feeling completely silent.

It wasn't a good substitute, but it was what he had. And he wasn't going to put it away, either.

"_But lonely is her favourite place to be;_

_When she feels the hurt, she lets it bleed..."_

He wrung out the cloth he'd just been using to wipe down the counter, tossing it in the sink so that it could be washed. Thinking only in terms of what he had to do was helping, he thought – it kept all the questions he still had at the back of his mind.

Usually, anyway. Well, some of the time. Thoughts about Miss Babcock had always been difficult to just put away whenever he wanted. They always found their own way to come back, whether he liked it or not.

"_Sometimes she's lost, sometimes she's broken_

_Sometimes she's closed, sometimes she's open_

_But lonely is her favourite place to be..."_

Niles shook his head – he couldn't afford to go down that rabbit hole. Not when his sanity depended on it. He moodily reached out for the radio and switched it to another station; the last song hadn't been helping him in his determination to keep thoughts about her at bay. He needed the reprieve – otherwise, his entire days would be spent going over Babcock-related questions in a loop.

It was bad enough, with everyone else in the house dealing with the fallout. To Mr Sheffield right at that moment, his former associate's name might as well have been mud; he sneered and snarled and would eventually fly into rages when someone so much as touched on the subject, working himself up with accusations of "how could C.C. do this to me?", or "didn't she know how many people were counting on us?" and "who did she think she was, just waltzing off by herself without so much as stopping by to say so much as a hint of a farewell?!".

He thought his wrath at any given time was justified, too. He hadn't been left by himself to run the business since the days before any infamous spat with famous English composers-slash-impresarios. Niles was reluctant to point out that even then, back in the early days, Miss Babcock had carried Atlas' share of the work from the moment she'd been hired.

He knew it would've earned him a glare, or even a verbal warning, had he found the courage to say anything. If Maxwell would have ever even noticed in the first place, he was so busy. It was getting to the point where the remaining producer was burying himself in paperwork every hour of the day and night just to keep up with the demand, as well as dashing out of the house every couple of hours to attend to matters at the theatre, cursing "that Judas in high heels" as he went.

Niles wasn't convinced his closest friend held the same kind of..._presence_ – command, if you will – as the firebrand blonde he used to send do his bidding. He doubted that he instilled the fear of God into choreographers, stage hands or actors much like...

Oh God, there he went again! He just couldn't help himself, could he? Even with that infernal song off and the kitchen now quiet apart from his own sullen footsteps and the too-cheerful chatter of the new station's radio show host and his guests, his mind automatically went back to the producer.

He had to try harder, if he hoped to get anywhere without slipping backwards. And that meant continuing with something else – probably bringing Mr Sheffield a cup of coffee, to make sure the man made it through the morning without falling into a fitful sleep in his office. Again.

That's why he always made sure to add a few extra caffeine shots to Mr Sheffield's cup, and this time would be no different.

The producer hadn't eaten much at breakfast, either. Fran had made the mistake of suggesting that, maybe, he should forgive Miss Babcock for going away, because who really knew what was going on? Maxwell had immediately let the knife and fork clatter down into his plate of barely-touched scrambled eggs on toast, and had proceeded to recite an entire _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ of reasons why he wouldn't do that. The food had gone cold in the meantime, but he hadn't tried to eat it – he'd instead made a point of saying how much work he had to get on with and had stormed out of the dining room.

That had certainly made for an interesting atmosphere, while everybody else had tried to finish their own breakfasts. But, slowly and surely, they had cleared their plates, so Mr Sheffield had been the only one to go without.

Part of Niles wanted to be bitter – to tell his employer how much of a martyr he was being and to suck it up and stop holding a grudge. That Fran was right and, even with all the questions still keeping him awake at night, he had to let it go.

Another part was quite happy to sit and sulk as much as the producer was. Miss Babcock had just walked out on them all, without so much as a word of explanation, and had treated it like it wouldn't be a problem. But how could it not be? She had a career there, a place she belonged with friends, she...she had...

Niles frowned to himself, unhappy deep in his gut. It was time to clear out his head again. And nothing did that better than remembering where he was and switching on the coffee pot, before topping a couple of scones he'd recently baked with sweet strawberry jam and a fresh helping of fine Devonshire cream (Mr Sheffield insisted on importing a few things every now and again).

It didn't take long – he was practically an expert by now. But the coffee pot taking its time to heat up to the perfect temperature left him waiting, and the swinging door soon parted from its closed place in the wall to reveal a still-worried looking Fran.

"Oh, Niles...! What are we gonna do?" her heels clicked and clacked on the floor as she hurried in. "I can't live with him like this anymore! How are we gonna get 'im ta snap out of it? Preferably before he throws a hissy fit at lunch, too!"

"What did he do now?" asked the butler, not looking up from his handiwork as he neatly settled the two scones on a plate, which he then placed on a tray, right next to two small dishes with some extra jam and cream, should Mr Sheffield want more of either on his snack.

Miss Fine complaining about Mr Sheffield's behaviour wasn't a rare occurrence these days, either. While Miss Babcock's upping and leaving had affected almost all areas of life at the Sheffield mansion, nothing had sustained as big a blow as Miss Fine and Mr Sheffield's budding relationship. They'd been getting closer since their somewhat…_knotty_ trip to London – Niles remembered that, upon their return (and after his heart attack), he'd had some hope that the British producer would finally grow the balls to make a move – but most (if not all) progress in that department had flown out the metaphorical window when Miss Babcock had left.

Mr Sheffield had no time to think about anything, let alone his love life. And while Fran was just as worried about Miss Babcock as the rest of them (minus Maxwell, of course), she resented being put on the backburner.

Niles didn't blame her – she and Mr Sheffield getting together was long overdue, but given the current circumstances he doubted it would get any better than this. For any of them.

"He got mad at me just 'cause I told him he should take a break – he's workin' himself ta the bone!"

"And he didn't take it well, did he?" Niles said.

"Ya'd think I'd insulted his Ma by the look he gave me," Fran grumbled as she opened the fridge and reached for her "emergency" tub of Ben & Jerry's. "All I did was suggest we go fer a walk or somethin'. Kinda like what you do every day aftah dinnah."

Niles nearly felt his hand twitch and knock the tray, but he held himself steady.

He had to. He couldn't let her know how much what she'd just said had nearly sent his body into a panic.

She'd seen him leaving. She'd seen him go out, and probably noticed that he'd gone for a drive, too! If she'd looked out the window even briefly and seen that the car was gone, she'd obviously know it was him!

The dread began to grip at him from the inside. Did...did she suspect where he went?

That was the most important question – could she possibly tell that every night, he was making a trip all the way to Miss Babcock's penthouse, purely for the sake of cleaning it?

Internally, he was kicking himself quite soundly. He thought he'd been so clever, slipping out just after he'd finished cleaning the kitchen, when no one was around the place but him! How could he have been so oblivious that he'd let himself get caught?!

Trying hard to keep everything appearing "normal", but really looking like an alien learning how to move limbs and partake in social acts like simple conversation, he reached for the coffee pot, only remembering once he'd set it down that he hadn't gotten a cup out for it yet.

"Oh, yes. Right. Well, it is, uh...nice, and healthy...to go for a little walk, now and again..." he swore he could feel a little sweat forming on his back, and attempted to move the chat forward as he opened the cupboard for a cup. "Have you seen Mr Sheffield's favourite coffee mug? The one Miss Grace painted for him when she was younger? It might cheer him up a little..."

Fran didn't appear to be having any of his attempts, however. Even with his back turned, Niles could already see the suspicious look in her eyes and her arms folded over her chest. She was probably leaning against the counter, too, ice cream tub all but forgotten atop the kitchen table.

"Where _do_ you go every night, Niles? Yer always gone fer an hour or more, an' I know it's not to the all-night grocery store just down the street, because yer always takin' the car. Besides, I checked with everyone who works the night shift."

The butler felt his stomach give a churn. He really didn't want to be having this conversation with anybody. He didn't want to have to explain that he went to Miss Babcock's apartment every night, whether that was to clean it, or simply just to sit and feel like everything was how it was before. That the producer was just in another room, and there were no questions to be answered.

He really wished there were no questions to be answered...

Granted, he could've brushed off these new ones from Fran with a zinger about excavating old ruins, or about how dogs needed their cages hosing down every once in a while, but he knew that would simply open up questions about why he was even there in the first place!

He didn't want to tell her why he was going there. Or anybody else, for that matter. Hell, he wasn't even completely sure or comfortable enough to even breach the subject with _himself_!

But that was something he definitely wasn't bringing up, with anybody. Perhaps ever.

And he'd spent long enough at the cupboard - his act of looking for that one specific cup was getting less and less convincing. So, he grabbed the first one his hand reached and went to bring it back to the counter.

Sure enough, just as he'd imagined, Fran was leaning against it when he turned, her dark eyes staring curious holes in him. It made him want bolt, either for outside, or for his own room – whichever his feet headed for first. Either one would have been perfect; certainly a lot better than what he ended up doing, which was to freeze right where he was.

"Somethin's the matter," Fran concluded, just from that act. "What is it?"

Niles nearly choked out his reply, willing his feet to move all the way to where he wanted to be, "Nothing! Nothing's the matter – why does anything have to be the matter?"

He set the cup down, setting – slamming – it down hard without meaning to.

Fran blinked at it, before turning her eyes up to him.

"Nothing has ta be the matter – you could always tell me, an' take the load off ya shoulders before we wind up with nothin' ta eat off or drink from!"

Niles looked down at the now-cracked mug – the fissure had formed at the base, and would most likely extend sooner or later. Way to pretend he had nothing to hide…! Breaking mugs and whatnot…

He really didn't want Fran to find out. He loved the woman dearly, but she wasn't exactly the best keeper of secrets out there. And if Mr Sheffield found out what he'd been doing, there was a fairly high chance that he'd either kick him to the curb, or that he'd never let Niles hear the end of it.

Quite honestly, after weeks of hearing him moan, Niles wasn't sure which option he dreaded the most.

Still, he doubted he'd get Fran off his back now that she was onto something – the woman could be somewhat oblivious, but she wasn't one to back off when she realised something was going on. She was almost like a bloodhound, but instead of picking up the scent of would-be quarry, she picked up the scent of good ol' gossip.

Blast his rotten luck…

"Fine," Niles said with a sigh as he discarded the broken mug in the trashcan. "But you must promise me you won't breath a word of this to anyone else – especially your mother or Val."

"My lips are sealed, Scarecrow," replied the nanny, beginning to smile in a way that reminded Niles of a cat who'd just caught a big, fat mouse. "Now talk!"

Niles winced – she'd poked him in the side as she said that.

Discreetly trying to rub it – her fingers were surprisingly hard against his ribs – he gave another sigh. Even with Fran's promise, he still didn't feel good about this. But, he'd said he would tell; he wasn't going to take any kind of coward's way out and refuse at the last second.

Here went nothing, he supposed.

"Every night, when I leave, I...I go to Miss Babcock's penthouse."

Fran's smile immediately dropped into a concerned look, and Niles could've sworn that she'd taken a step away in order to look him up and down.

It was almost as though she were trying to size him up and figure out what was wrong with him.

And, in some ways, perhaps that was what she was doing. In her own mind, Fran wasn't exactly surprised by the revelation; Niles _had_ been acting different – sad, or maybe even a little depressed, despite trying to hide it – since Miss Babcock had gone away...

But why go to her penthouse? What difference did it make? And just how bad was he feeling about it all that he felt he needed to go to the apartment of a woman who'd quit without giving any of them a real goodbye?

"I see," she began carefully, not wanting to accidentally make him feel worse. It was clear this meant a lot to the butler – he wouldn't have kept it to himself otherwise. "Why do ya go there? What do you do?"

The natural reaction for Niles was to start up on those zingers he'd thought about earlier, but he suppressed the urge. Now was definitely not the time; Fran wouldn't appreciate it. Not when he'd told her that he'd tell.

"I mostly...clean it, really. And brighten the place up by putting fresh flowers in the vases. It just feels like the right thing to do."

That wasn't the complete truth, he thought to himself. But he didn't know if he could bring himself to think about the full answer as to why he did it (especially not the flowers part), let alone share it out loud. He tried not to think much about why he did it, and his internal turmoil was easy to tune out when he was working around her home, but he couldn't always escape it. Still, voicing his concerns and feelings wasn't something he wanted to do, least of all with Fran.

He didn't want to analyse the whys behind what he was doing, and if he and Fran got talking about it, he was sure that was where their conversation would lead, sooner or later.

No, as the old saying goes, ignorance is bliss. Intentional ignorance, in his case, but it was ignorance nonetheless.

However, even with his careful avoidance of sentimentality, there was one thing Niles hadn't been able to do – step into her bedroom. He'd cleaned the whole penthouse, top to bottom and several times over, but that was the one room he simply couldn't bring himself to touch. It felt…sacrilegious. Almost as if stepping into it meant defacing something holy. Something sacred…

They'd been waging an endless war for years on end; he'd done awful things to her in his time, but violating her most private space was something he simply couldn't bring himself to do. There were boundaries they had never crossed, and this was one of them. They'd both had their safe spaces that the other wasn't meant to pry into, and even without her there he still felt he had to honour their tacit agreement.

Otherwise it would feel like he'd be dealing her a low blow – playing dirty – and given the circumstances that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"I just…keep her lair nice and clean for when she comes back," he continued, forcing a small smile at his (obviously) lame zinger.

Fran tried to muster a smile back, but bringing herself to do it was difficult. Too difficult, in fact; she could tell that he was suffering too much for any small amount of humour to take it away.

Maybe it wasn't a little depression he'd been feeling, so much as a great big double helping with extra misery on the side? It would definitely explain why he felt he had to go there every night, when it wasn't as though an apartment that wasn't being used had to be cleaned every day.

She felt her heart break for her friend. He'd been going over there, night after night, to keep the place clean for a woman he couldn't be sure would ever be back. She couldn't say for sure what he felt about the former producer - all the evidence seemed to contradict itself - but she was getting the sense that he really didn't see her as any kind of nemesis.

He really was taking this harder than she'd realised, and he'd been keeping it bottled up in there like it wasn't just a shaken-up soda waiting to be opened.

It was one of the most British things about him, keeping it all in like that. It often made her wonder how far it went, but she knew he'd probably never tell. Heck, she'd been calling him her joint best friend for years now and she still didn't even know his last name!

"And yer gonna keep on doing this?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

She could've guessed the answer, but it wasn't as though she ever got it from the butler's own mouth. As soon as she'd asked, his eyes had gone worriedly to the swinging door, before looking back at her in a panic.

"Yes, but I don't think we can keep talking about this," he said, hurrying back to fetch another cup from the cupboard. "In case Mr Sheffield finds out."

The nanny bit back a frown. She knew that Maxwell would be mad at the both of them for discussing "that Brutus in red lipstick", but she suspected it had less to do with that and more to do with Niles not wanting to talk about it anymore.

Still, it wasn't like she could force him.

"Alright, Scarecrow; we can stop here."

But that didn't stop her gut feelings from telling her that something was wrong. He might've been relieved that they'd stopped, but Fran was more worried than ever.

Worried about her friend. Worried about what would happen if Miss Babcock never came back...

She wasn't sure she wanted to find out what Niles would do if she didn't.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Heavy_.

That was how C.C.'s body felt: heavy.

And yet, at the same time, she felt as frail as a glass figurine; almost like the smallest movement or disturbance in the air could shatter her tired and battered body into a million little pieces.

Ever since she'd found out she had cancer, C.C. had known she'd need chemo to get better. She'd had time to digest the news, dissect it and, she'd believed, accept it. It was a necessary evil, wasn't it? She'd been certain that she would push through it – that it would be hard and painful, but that she'd ultimately come out the other side…right?

_**Wrong**_.

It had only taken going through one miserable chemo cycle for her to realise that she had grossly underestimated just how gruelling this process was going to be.

One of the first side effects she'd experienced, was the nausea. Post-chemo puking was _a thing_, and one that C.C. had found out almost immediately after receiving her first dosage. Not even limiting her food intake had helped – she'd spent hours kneeling in front of the toilet, with Nurse Cameron and Dr Wilson by her side. It had gotten so bad that she'd had to be given fluids through an IV line to rehydrate her. The process had only repeated itself yesterday, after getting her second infusion, and would continue to happen throughout her treatment. The bright-ish side to it was that at least she now knew what to expect.

More importantly, it meant that Wilson and Cameron knew what to expect – they knew they had to hook her up to an IV bag from the moment her infusions were over in order to avoid dehydration.

Then, there was fatigue. The ever-present, soul-crushing, fucking fatigue that hadn't left her side ever since she'd started her treatment. Wilson had warned her that debilitating fatigue was one of the hallmark side-effects of chemo, but C.C. had never imagined it would be this bad. She, a woman used to work 14-hour long shifts while running only on coffee, cigarettes and energy drinks, simply couldn't bring herself to do anything else but rest for days on end.

Each chemo cycle consisted of two infusions given two weeks apart, with a "rest week" in between the treatments. The first few days after her infusions were always the worst – the tiredness and weakness were so bad, that she'd often have to spend most of the day lying in bed. Even the simplest tasks – eating, going to the toilet, even having a shower – were a struggle, and her recurrent fevers (a normal side effect after the chemo as long as they didn't last for over 48 hours post-infusion, Wilson had said) made the problem much, much worse.

Cameron had been a Godsend in that regard, helping her with anything and everything.

C.C. usually got a small reprieve of her fatigue around the last few days before the next infusion. That didn't mean her energy levels were back to normal (nothing could be further from the truth), but it did mean she felt well enough to take short walks around the clinic, visit the library or the music room.

Nausea and fatigue (plus anaemia and an array of other delightful chemo-related crap) had also brought with them more unwanted weight loss. She'd lost another ten pounds in barely a month. Being 5'9" and now weighing a meagre 106 pounds meant that she was on the verge of being severely underweight. Wilson had said they'd have to keep an eye on that, otherwise her recovery could be jeopardised.

To cap it all off, C.C.'s hair had been falling in clumps for the last month or so. It had started suddenly – she'd woken up one morning and found her pillow was covered in her own hair. She'd tried – she knew, in vain – to put off doing anything about it. Something in her mind had told her she couldn't try getting rid of all of it yet; that having her hair fall in clumps, going gradually in her bed and in the shower, or even just where she sat sometimes, was better than getting rid of it all at once. Like it was better to have some hair, rather than no hair at all.

Besides, even trying to bring anything as remotely heavy as an electric razor up to her head hurt like hell. Just like everything else did, those _special_ couple of days after her infusions. The fever was a doozy; an unbearably hot, pained headache that spread outwards over her whole body, making it an effort to lift anything heavier than a toothbrush, when all she wanted to do was lay in her bed and feel miserable.

She'd ignored her falling locks as best she could, anyway, sweeping the discarded hair into the trash can when she'd been able to, but eventually it had become noticeable. Too noticeable. So much so that both Cameron and Wilson had begun (gently) hammering home the message that, in the long run, it would be worse for her mental health to see her own hair falling out randomly throughout the day than to just cut it all off.

They'd tried to soften the blow by explaining that, this way, she got to control part of what was happening. Saving herself from added stress. And, eventually, she had relented. There was nothing else to be done…

A knock on her bedroom door in the present moment told her that the time had come, too. She'd known that Cameron was on her way to do the dubious honours, but she'd been so consumed by her own thoughts that the moment seemed sooner.

Trying very slowly to sit up without letting her head spin – ugh, and _failing_; trying to move like that might have been a mistake, when she was dizzy enough already – she called out to her waiting nurse.

"Come in...!"

Cameron didn't hang around; she pushed open the slightly ajar door and quietly wheeled in a small table. It was almost a refreshing change of pace to see that it held instruments for cutting hair, rather than medication, needles and other assorted treatments.

"Hi, C.C.," the nurse said with a smile clearly trying to make her feel as at ease as possible, even if they both knew it wasn't really going to happen. "How's your fever doing?"

_Being controlled by the meds they'd put her on and a few rounds of Tylenol,_ C.C. thought of replying, but between that, the fluids they had been pumping into her for the puking and the fact that she was still dizzy and unwell from both, it didn't add up to much. She was still having the worst time of her life, even if it could, theoretically, be even more terrible.

But she didn't answer that. As bad as she felt, Cameron didn't deserve the sharpness. It was obvious to anybody who had eyes that the nurse loved her work. Seeing a patient brought down under the weight of such an awful disease probably got to her more than she ever said while tending to anybody. She could use a little bit of good news, rather than more bad.

Staying positive was probably necessary here, anyway. And it wasn't as though the fever was going to last forever – it was already better than it had been earlier...

"It's coming down, slowly," C.C. replied, trying to hold herself still to see if it calmed the last little bit of reeling sensation she'd brought upon herself by sitting up. "It'll be gone again soon, I think."

She just about stopped herself from thinking of the next time, when it would be back again. She couldn't get too far ahead of herself, and besides, she was already upset enough now, so why bother scheduling any more and filling up the calendar?

Cameron, of course, was completely oblivious to the internal argument. She just smiled brighter and brought the table closer to the bed.

"That's great! But we'll still keep a close eye on it for a few more days, just in case," she began arranging the hair cutting implements, like she was deciding which one to start off with. "Anyway, are you ready for this? Everything is good to go when you are..."

C.C. felt the bottom of her stomach dropping out, her attempt at being positive inches away from flying out the metaphorical window. She wasn't ready for what was about to happen – she knew she wasn't ready. But what choice did she have? Her hair would fall out, whether she liked it or not, and she would most likely look a lot better than she currently did with a shaved head and a headscarf. Not that she'd admit it out loud, but she almost looked as if she were suffering from mange! Her hair wasn't falling evenly, so there were huge bald spots mixed in between thinning hair. It looked disgusting, so the best thing she could do was to nip this in the bud (no pun intended).

If only it weren't so difficult…

Letting go of her hair meant having to accept that this nightmare was real and that there was no going back. She'd known it would come, not to get her wrong, but she hadn't expected to get to this point this quickly…

"Ready as I can be in this situation," C.C. eventually replied, giving the nurse a sad smile. "Are we doing it here, on the bed?"

Cameron shook her head, "I thought we'd go in the bathroom, to make it easier. I have a wheelchair for you outside – sit tight a moment and I'll get it and we'll...get moving."

C.C.'s smile – as much of it as hadn't dissolved in the first few seconds – dropped, along with the middle and top of her stomach, as well as all the other organs that were piled on top of that. It was really getting to that stage, then? The time when she couldn't even walk somewhere less than twenty feet away by herself. The time when she'd have to rely on somebody else, for one of the most basic acts an able-bodied, independent person could do.

A previously independent person, anyway.

It was something she'd feared as much as having her head shaved. Another sign that she was as weak and helpless as the disease was already making her feel. And now, it had arrived; a wheelchair being pushed by her nurse.

Said nurse was obviously trying to be as tactful as possible about it all, which C.C. appreciated even if she couldn't bring herself to feel anything more than dread and despair at the entire scenario.

She was too upset to speak, but managed to nod, which was enough of a sign to Cameron that she was ready to go.

That didn't stop her wanting to burst into tears the moment the nurse left the room and came back with the chair, though. Especially when Cameron parked the thing in front of her, ready to help her sit down on it.

"Here you go – we'll get this done in no time."

The cheerfulness in the nurse's voice didn't make C.C. feel any better, but she knew she was right. The sooner she got into that chair, the sooner they'd get the whole damned thing over and done with.

So, lifting herself up, she went to turn and seat herself in the chair––

Only for a loud ring to cut through the air, making them both start.

The phone, on C.C.'s bedside table.

C.C. suppresses a frustrated groan. Now just _who_ the hell was that calling?! Who did they want to speak to – her or Cameron? And why did it have to be now? She was so close to just getting it all over and done with, and now it was all about to be set back by somebody else needing something...

Cameron looked between her and the ringing device, "Take a seat, I'll get it."

C.C. just about caught herself before telling Cameron to just let the darn thing ring – as much as she disliked delayed plans, the call could be important. For all she knew, Noel could be calling. It was a long shot – he was usually in class at this time – but the possibility was there.

With a huff, C.C. collapsed into her chair, taking care not to disturb the long plastic tube that connected her port to the IV bag that was dripping much-needed fluids into her system. If it weren't for everything else going on, she would've probably grumbled aloud about how even doing that made her feel like she could collapse on the floor.

She'd never once let it cross her mind how exhausting anything like this could be. For God's sake, she was catching her breath back simply from moving two feet from her bed to her wheelchair! And even when she managed it, it made her want to dry heave! How could it possibly ache so much?

It made her even more melancholy than before, like somebody was rubbing salt into a gaping wound. Between this and Wilson already putting her on softer foods to make all the vomiting easier, she couldn't have felt more like an old person if she'd tried.

And what came after that? What was honestly going to come next; another worrying sign of her condition, or another slightly humiliating indignity that she'd never live down if...certain people...found out about it?

That was a thought that had to be discarded immediately, so she made more of an effort to tune back into what Cameron was saying to the person on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, this is the right place. Who is calling, please?"

Yes, just who was calling right at that moment? The question had been swallowed up in her gloom and hadn't managed to resurface until she'd...thought about the wrong thing. But now she could finally pay attention to what was important, and that didn't involve anything from her past.

Right now, it involved whomever Cameron was talking to.

"Oh, I see. Yes. Well then, I will be happy to pass you over to her. My apologies for the delay – we do have to follow a protocol."

C.C. felt her eyebrow quirk of its own accord. That little speech Cameron had just made told her one obvious thing and one not-so-obvious; first of all, the call was for her, which set off its own kind of curiosity. Second, the hospital's policy on unlisted (or unmentioned) relatives or friends meant going through a number of security questions anytime somebody new appeared. She supposed, in a place crammed with some of the wealthiest people that side of anywhere, it stopped spurned relatives or lovers forcing their way in to demand will changes, or something.

This person definitely wasn't Noel. Who else could possibly be calling her for anything?

Cameron turned to her, pulling the receiver away so she could speak.

"It's Marcelo – your doorman, apparently?"

C.C.'s eyebrows shot up in (pleasant) surprise. Apart from Noel, Marcelo was the only person who knew she was there, and quite honestly she liked him enough to actually want to have a conversation with him. Besides, he'd promised to keep an eye on her mailbox and let her know if anything important got there, so even if she hadn't been in the mood to talk to him she would still have had to pick up the phone.

"Pass the phone over," C.C. said, actually starting to smile a little.

She didn't know how he did it, but Marcelo had a way of making a person happy even during their darkest days. He might not get the biggest smile out of you, but talking to him always made things a little bit better.

"Right away," Cameron said to her.

Momentarily laying the phone down next to the receiver, Cameron quickly made her way to C.C. and wheeled her over to her nightstand. The producer picked up the phone as soon as it was at arm's length – after weeks of practically no social interaction (apart from those with Wilson and Cameron, that was) she longed to hear a familiar, friendly voice.

"Hello, Marcelo," she said into the phone. "How are things over there?"

"I should be asking that question, Miss Babcock!" replied the doorman, sounding as chipper as ever – C.C. could almost see his smile in her mind's eye. "How are you doing?"

Her slight smile nearly became a chuckle. She couldn't help it – even in the depths of her unhappiness, with a fever she knew wouldn't be going away for hours and the sensation that she could re-introduce her last meal to the room at any moment, the man still knew how to cheer her up.

It was just something that came naturally to him, she supposed.

"As peachy and rose-coloured as I can be," she replied – he knew her enough to know how much of that would be sarcasm. "Anyway, I asked you first; how are you? Is there anything going on at home that I should know about?"

She hadn't been expecting his call so quickly, to tell the truth. She knew there wouldn't be any hospital bills to pay yet, and she hardly ever got any actually important mail. Apart from the stuff to do with her work, of course, which she no longer did. And that only left her feeling heavier and less...well, less like she'd been talking to a person who only ever seemed to make people happy.

"Oh, no need to worry about me. I'm doing just fine," Marcelo replied, as dismissive of his well-being as he always was when he believed someone had it worse. "I have some mail here for you, though. I was wondering what you wanted me to do with it."

"If its bills, burn them," she said, chuckling. "Just kidding – is it anything important?"

"Let me see…" Marcelo replied, and C.C. could hear him fumbling with what sounded like several papers (most likely her mail) on the other end. "Okay, there are some bills – electricity, heating, and whatnot – there's a letter from the Broadway Guild, and there's a rather large package from your mother. Apparently she's in France and has sent you some gifts – there's a note attached to it that says so."

"Ah, yeah, she always sends me stuff when she travels," C.C. said, smiling sadly. It was somewhat depressing that her mother would send material gifts to her but didn't deign call her…

"I'll send everything over then," Marcelo said. "Ana will probably want to add some of her homemade goodies – maybe some alfajores, too?"

C.C. wanted to say that she was salivating a little even thinking about them. Normally, she would – Ana's cooking was to die for anyway, but her alfajores were something special. She just had a knack for them, it seemed, because it had been Marcelo who'd taught her how to make them (he'd told the former producer this when she'd first tried them). It was like a top-secret, unbeatable recipe that his family had kept for generations, and they both knew how much C.C. loved them. It was enough to make sure she always got a box of them on her birthday, and at Christmas.

But as things stood, she couldn't imagine eating anything at all. Not even the most delicious alfajor in the entire world.

Not that she'd hurt either Marcelo's or Ana's feelings by telling them that. They'd already both done more than they had to, and she wanted to show them that they were appreciated. They were good people, simply trying to help, and she wasn't going to deny them that.

Besides, she was sure the alfajores would keep for a while, as long as she could keep Wilson's grubby, sweet-loving paws off them. The guy would eat anything covered in sugar that wasn't physically glued or nailed to a table!

In good terms, it was almost like being treated by Nanny Fine. But that was as far as she could go with that thought – she wasn't going back to the past now.

"That sounds wonderful, thank you," she said, trying her best to sound as enthusiastic as she ordinarily would. "I'll be looking forward to those in the mail. I could do with some excitement you know?"

"I can imagine," Marcelo replied. "You must be a bit bored cooped up in there."

"Out of my mind, Marcelo, out of my mind. But I guess it's a matter of biting the proverbial bullet, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is – but I'm sure you'll be back with us soon. You're missed around here, Miss Babcock!" said Marcelo.

C.C. let out a "_pfft_". She was more than certain that that wasn't true – it held up there with facts such as "the sky is blue" or "water is wet".

"Oh, _puh-lease_, Marcelo; if I know Maxwell's – and I do – he's probably pissed off at me, which isn't surprising considering when and how I quit. We were about to open a new show – he's probably buried under piles of paperwork and has no one to pick up the slack now that I'm gone, so he'll be acting like a huge drama queen and trying to convince everyone under the sun that his anger is completely justified. Nanny Fine and the children will all have moved on without me being there to clutter up their space, and as for Niles..."

She'd been on kind of a roll, up until she'd hit the butler-shaped wall. But it was a minor blip, obviously. She knew what would be going on in Niles' head, and it followed her certainty to the letter.

That let her continue without any trouble, "Well, he'll probably finally be shifting that butler behind of his in order to do some backflips of celebration!"

Marcelo made a noise that could only be described as the way the phrase _"I'm not so sure about that" _felt.

"He's been shifting, alright," he told her. "But nothing quite like how you described, and probably not at all how you would be imagining."

C.C. blinked, screwing up her face. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why would Niles not be acting the way she was expecting? There was no other way for him to act! They had a rhythm to their interactions, and she knew that wouldn't have gone away just because she had!

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "If he's not doing that, what is he doing?"

Marcelo chuckled.

"Well, he's uh...been coming around here quite a bit, actually," he said.

Wait a minute, _what_?

What was Niles doing, going to her old building? What was the point in that? Didn't he have better things to be doing, like throwing the never-ending party he'd probably been planning in light of her sudden disappearance?

"What the hell for? Did he not have enough cleaning to do at the mansion so he's had to resort to taking on some of the workload in the lobby?"

"Not exactly," the doorman replied, his smile somehow coming through the phone. "He's been cleaning up around your penthouse."

..._What_?!

What did he mean, Niles was cleaning up around the _penthouse_?! But...but why?!

It didn't make any sense – what good would that be doing for him? If anything, it was more of a favour to her, and he'd never do a favour for her willingly or knowingly!

"That he's what?!" she cried out, making Cameron jump, too. "_Niles Brightmore_, perennial domestic pain in my butt, is cleaning _my_ penthouse?!"

"Yes ma'am; he's been doing it every day since you left," replied doorman, cheerful as ever. "He comes in through the parking lot – I believe he has a magnetic key of his own. I checked what he'd been up to several times and found your apartment squeaky clean! He even got some flowers, and changes them every couple of days."

If C.C. hadn't already been feeling like she was about to pass out due to her illness, the information that had just been relayed to her would have most likely knocked her out. Daily cleaning? _Flowers_?! In what universe did those things go together with Niles Brightmore?! Niles Brightmore being the same man who'd always get a kick out of preparing her darn coffee with dirty dishwater! The same man who'd made it his goal to make her days _just_ that little bit harder. The same man who had called her his home entertainment system several times over!

The idea was ludicrous…

Was she hallucinating? It could be – fevers were known to do that to a person (and that wasn't taking into account the shitload of other noxious chemicals currently running through her blood…).

It was either that, or she'd stepped into some weird alternate universe when she'd taken that short nap before Cameron's arrival.

"Marcelo, are you sure we are talking about the same Niles? British, about six feet tall, blue eyes, usually smells of Lysol? And if we are, are you sure he hasn't booby-trapped the hell out of my apartment?"

"The very same, Miss B," Marcelo replied. "He comes every day, like clockwork, and just cleans up. I don't know what you think, but that looks like a pretty big sign that he misses you to me…"

_Misses you._

That felt like a jolt of electricity through her chest, and a blunt kick in the stomach at the same time.

But Marcelo couldn't have been right! It wouldn't be as straightforward as Niles going in, cleaning the place, freshening it up with _flowers_ and then leaving again! And it definitely wouldn't all be happening because he "missed her" or anything in that ballpark!

No, there had to be some other reason the butler was going there every day. Probably to set up some kind of master plan, in preparation for her return. Either that, or he'd already finished setting up but kept having to go back to check on it every day that she didn't arrive home...

Whatever it was, she knew Marcelo was wrong. She knew Niles better than he did, and the butler would never miss her in the first place, let alone tell the whole world by going to look after her apartment while she wasn't there.

And that was something she was going to have to explain quite carefully to her doorman. If she didn't, he might just keep insisting that he was right and that was the last thing she wanted on her mind.

"I don't think so," she told him with a light chuckle. "I know Niles – he would never miss me. I could be gone for a million years, and the thought would never even enter his head...! No, he has to be going there to do something else, so just be careful when you walk around the place; any of it could probably go off at any moment. It's not like he knows when I'm actually coming back..."

There was a small silence at the other end of the phone (although C.C. could almost swear she heard Marcelo give a small sigh).

"Alright then, Miss B, if you say so – would you like me to ask him to stop coming?" said the doorman.

C.C. hesitated then – her first instinct was to say yes, have the man stop coming to her home, but there was another part of her that was…unsure? She didn't understand his actions (they weren't like him in the slightest), but what if little routine really mattered to him? Whether that was because he was setting up the Sistine Chapel of pranks or because he missed her, however unlikely that might be, she didn't feel like she could put an end to it.

As much as she groused about him and his endless set-ups, she had to admit that they'd been a staple of both of their lives for well over a decade. Niles had probably been finding himself itching for a part of his routine that simply wouldn't go back to normal. Maybe this was his way of dealing with it – like how smokers used nicotine patches when they were trying to drop the habit.

If she didn't know better, she'd almost feel bad for the guy.

"No…no, it's alright," she eventually said, sighing. "He just needs some time to find a new hobby. It will wear off soon, trust me. But for now, I don't see why at least one of us can't have fun. Thanks for letting me know anyway. Is that all for now? I have a rather pressing appointment with an electric razor."

Marcelo seemed to catch on to what she meant rather quickly.

"Oh, for your...uh…yeah…" he trailed off, sounding like all the happiness and energy had been sucked out, the moment he'd been reminded of where she was. "I am sorry, Miss B."

C.C. shook her head a little, like she might've done if he'd been there in the room.

"Don't be; it's been a long time coming, really," she said, not really bearing the thought of leaving him down. "Anyway, I'll either see or talk to you when I can. Bye for now, Marcelo."

After the doorman had bid her farewell, she hung up the phone. But, while turning back towards Cameron and trying to forget what the man had said, the thing rang again.

Marcelo had probably forgotten to tell her something. As long as it wasn't more about...what he'd said before...

She picked it up again anyway, just in case it was actually important.

"Hello?"

But she didn't hear the voice of the doorman come back to her. In fact, she didn't hear anything. Apart from, maybe, some distant shuffling down the other end of the phone.

She tried again, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

But after a few more seconds, the line went dead. The other person had hung up.

C.C. stared at the phone for a moment, thinking the whole situation was odd, before she shrugged and put it back down. They probably had a wrong number and were too embarrassed to say, or something.

"Everything okay?" Cameron piped up.

"Yeah, everything's fine – wrong number," C.C. replied, now turning fully away from the phone. "Let's get down to it; the most drastic hairdo I've ever had. Apart from maybe one time, when I got locked in a basement for a while..."

Cameron laughed, coming to take the handles of her wheelchair, "Well, you understand that you've _got_ to tell me about that now, right?"

C.C. laughed a little as the nurse wheeled her towards the bathroom, settling in as much as she could to talk about literally anything than either of the phone calls she'd just had. Maybe sharing some happy memories with Cameron would help see her through this hellish experience.

She just needed to do that for a little while. Just long enough to see her through the necessary hurt that she had been avoiding for so long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The newly laundered sheets in the penthouse's guest room fell neatly and crisply over the freshly made bed, soft, fluffy pillows plumped like marshmallows tucked in at the top and mattress turned over. It was the last of the toughest chores Niles had had to do in that room, and if he had been in a better mood, he would've said that he was quite proud of himself for having done such good work.

But the heaviness of the place was too much for that. It was like he found himself clamped in chains whenever he stepped foot inside the apartment. Not that that meant he would stop coming. He couldn't.

There seemed to be an irony in the fact that the thing making him feel so bad was the only thing also making him feel better.

The burden was becoming an obsession, he knew, but he didn't care. It had been a little over a month now since Miss Babcock's quiet exit from all of their lives, and none of the days since had brought him (any of them, really) news or any sense of peace. This was as close as he got to the producer anymore, and he wasn't about to give it up.

Besides, Miss Babcock's penthouse currently was a much calmer place than the Sheffield mansion. The almost-complete-disappearance of the more practical, go-getting producer had slowed the business to half-speed. That set tension levels at "high" between Mr Sheffield and the rest of the family. At least, that was how it would've happened, had Maxwell told the story. As it seemed to anybody else – especially those who _didn't_ have a grudge against Miss Babcock for leaving – Maxwell himself was the source of the tension and everyone else was, quite passively and innocently, in the vicinity. Much like planets orbited a sun, only the sun this time was burning hurt rage and betrayal rather than hydrogen gas.

Of course, he would never in a million years admit that he was hurt by Miss Babcock leaving. That was why he preferred to blow up any time somebody even so much as looked like they were about to mention her name. Unfortunately, that meant everybody trod on eggshells around him, while he almost seemed to dare them all to talk about it. It was maddening being there, waiting for the man to blow up at any moment for no real reason.

Today's morning had been particularly bad for the butler due to his boss' foul mood, so he'd come up with an old (but always useful) solution – he'd said he was having some minor chest pains and asked if he could take the day off. Just as Niles had planned, Mr Sheffield had reluctantly agreed. It wasn't so much as an act of kindness on Maxwell's part, but rather him not wanting to deal with Niles having a potential second heart attack and thus suddenly finding himself both without a business partner _and_ a butler.

Niles had immediately headed out, claiming that long walks were beneficial for his cardiovascular health. He hadn't lied – he'd had to walk to Miss Babcock's home, after all, and it wasn't like Mr Sheffield had to know where he'd really chosen to spend his day off.

That, in turn, meant that he had more time to do what he wanted around the penthouse. Well, not "wanted" as in "do as he pleased", but he could complete every chore that Miss Babcock's apartment could ever need doing. Neat and tidy living and dining areas, dust-free home office and library, gleaming kitchen and bathrooms – he was making his way swiftly through them all.

It was going to look as though the place had never been lived in. Scratch that thought, actually – that kind of imagery made him feel uneasy. Almost like Miss Babcock had been wiped from existence. And, while he might've openly claimed before to want to be rid of the producer to anyone who would listen (and a few who didn't want to), he couldn't stomach the thought of...of...

The butler shook his head, mind immediately scraping for a distraction. He wasn't going to think of it. She would come back, eventually, and the penthouse would be ready and waiting when she did. He just had to keep the place in tip-top condition for that day.

Not that he had managed the entire place so far. Or that he even thought he would, by the time the producer returned. He...he still couldn't entertain the idea of entering her bedroom to clean, or tidy up, or make the bed...he didn't even think he could go in to just open the windows and let the air run through.

Not that the temptation wasn't there, any time he went in. He often took glances towards the corridor that led to her bedroom when he was passing through, but he never dared step in that direction.

He kept himself to himself and resolved to look elsewhere to clean, or to set things in order. Just as he was doing in that moment.

There had to be somewhere else that needed his attention; he hadn't been through the whole penthouse yet. And the guest room was complete now – he'd dusted the place from top to bottom, made the bed over and vacuumed the floor, as well as set out that day's bouquet of flowers on top of the dresser.

It looked ready for anybody to stay over, now – ready to be lived in again. The exact way he'd get the rest of the apartment looking in no time.

So, gathering up his cleaning supplies, he began to make his way back towards the living area, still looking over towards the door to Miss Babcock's room as he went...

Only this time, something was amiss. It was small and dark, but he could still see it, even from where he stood.

Curious, he set his supplies down and went over to take a look. He didn't remember anything like dust bunnies forming around the corridor – he would've been certain to clean those away if he had seen them before!

But the closer he got, the more obvious it became that it wasn't a clump of gathered dust, but a large black spider that had sat itself on the floor. Only as soon as it had seen him arrive, it had decided that its period of peaceful rest was over and it fled, scurrying under the door to Miss Babcock's bedroom.

"Oh, no you don't!" Niles grumbled under his breath and, without thinking twice about what he was about to do, he took off after the little creature.

He'd dealt with arachnids many a time in his years as a butler and, if there was one thing any self-respecting domestic knew, it was that any pest had to be nipped in the bud before it had a chance to spread. The last thing he needed was for all his hard work to be ruined by some slimy, eight-legged vermin.

He was in Miss Babcock's room in seconds, down on all fours and with his left shoe in his hand. He wasn't going to let that thing go without a fight.

"Where are you now, Mr Spider?" the butler cooed maliciously as he slowly went around the room, checking beneath the furniture. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

It was lucky there wasn't anyone around the penthouse apart from the butler – the sight of a middle aged man being driven bonkers by a simple spider was quite comical. He was especially glad that Miss Babcock wasn't there to see his humiliation. She'd never let him live that kind of shame down, and he could already hear the names, even as he crawled around on the floor looking for his new, multi-legged nemesis.

"_Watch out! Here he comes, it's Spider-Barely-a-Man!"_

"_To think, the butler who thinks himself the finest wit, is being outwitted by a tiny little creature that has a brain the size of a mustard seed...!"_

"_You know, while you're crawling around down there in the parts you haven't cleaned, you could make the world's largest duster! You'll have achieved the peak of your purpose, Butler Boy."_

It was making him feel...odd and sad, to think about how much he missed that. It was also making him wonder exactly what it had come to, that meant he was having to act as a Miss Babcock insult replacement in his own head.

But if he stopped and thought about that, the tiny, hairy bastard he was looking for would get away. If he did that, he'd make webs everywhere and they'd catch on everything, tying down dust and potentially piling up dead insects if the spider was lucky enough to find any. He was going to make the place untidy again!

And Niles wasn't having that – especially not if he wasn't going to clean or even really touch the...room he was now in...

He immediately scrambled to his feet, the problem of the smug little web spinning arsehole put on a back burner while his mind dealt with bigger issues.

Namely, the issue of how he had just barged into Miss Babcock's room! What had he done?! He wasn't supposed to be in there – even less than the spider was! He'd told himself and promised himself and dragged himself away from even thinking about going inside, and yet what had he done? How had he not been thinking?!

He didn't know – had the thought of letting a single spider into her room really been so terrible that he had broken his own promise?

He didn't know that, either. He didn't even know what to do now; Miss Babcock had never known that he'd been in there, for one thing. Could he maybe scoop up the wayward arachnid and take it out to the balcony, close the door behind him and forget this ever happened?

Or...or did he clean the room, like the rest of the penthouse? There was a chance that Miss Babcock would go nuclear on him for being in her most private and intimate space, but she would probably already have been angry at him for letting himself into her home without her permission...

Was there too much to lose? He doubted she'd appreciate it, but the rest of the place was practically brand-new in how much he'd cleaned it, in preparation for her return. And, the more he looked at his new surroundings, the more he realised that he simply couldn't leave her room unattended anymore.

Dust, some cobwebs and a distinct damp-ish smell had taken hold of Miss Babcock's bedroom, walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom, bringing forward just how long it had been since the spaces had been lived in. It was yet another depressing ode to her mysterious disappearance, and leaving it as it was, was now making him uneasy. He knew it was irrational, but if things were nice and clean it was almost as if…as if she'd never left.

As if she'd walk through the front door any minute from then, barking into her phone and clutching at a to-go cappuccino. It would have been a sight for sore eyes, but for now he'd have to make do with what little he had: cleaning.

Besides, at this point, cleaning was a necessity if he wanted to find the spider – the slippery little bastard could be anywhere, and what better way to find and end it than with a broom, a feather-duster and a can of Lysol?

Having made his decision, Niles put his shoe back on and started his cleaning endeavour by pulling up the blinds and opening the windows, letting some much needed air in to ventilate the previously suffocating room. The new light only made the room's state of disarray all the more clear, which in turn strengthened the butler's determination to leave it spick and span.

It wasn't long until Niles had brought over his best cleaning supplies and was scrubbing, dusting and sweeping around the room. He could truly be an efficient worker when he put his mind to it, and it soon started to show. Previously dusty furniture now gleamed, the floor was so clean one could eat off of it, the windows had been so thoroughly wiped that it looked as if there were no crystals in the frames, and everything smelled of flowers (courtesy of Niles nearly having emptied an entire can of air freshener around the room).

This was probably the most he'd cleaned in ages, but he didn't mind. He worked dutifully and silently, not really thinking about anything. After so many years of working as a butler, there were certain actions that came naturally to him – he just switched to auto-pilot, and that was that. He supposed it was the experience talking, in a way, but there was something pleasant about tuning everything out and just getting lost in the motions that were second nature to him. It let his mind rest from the constant worrisome thoughts that assailed it, day after day.

It took him almost two hours, but eventually Miss Babcock's bedroom, bathroom and walk-in closet were squeaky clean. He'd even managed to find and snuff the life out of his hairy nemesis, which had taken refuge beneath Miss Babcock's vanity. The only thing that was left for him to do, was change the bedsheets and that would be it. He always left that task for last – he absolutely hated making beds, especially if he knew he'd have to change and wash the dirty bedding afterwards.

With a sigh, Niles went over to Miss Babcock's bed and started his last task. The pillowcases were the first to go, and they were soon followed by the comforter and the bedsheets.

It was while removing the latter that a small, white envelope caught Niles' eye. It was hidden from view, tangled in between the bedsheets, almost as if someone had forgotten to stash it away safely. It was open, too, and from it a letter was peeking out.

Nile immediately felt his hands twitch.

He reached out for it before any half-conscious thought had formed in his head – he acted on impulse and in desperation. Under any other normal circumstances, he wouldn't have dared touch it (let alone read it), but in his mind there was no other possibility, currently.

He had to know.

He carefully pulled out and unfolded the letter, feeling drops of sweat forming and running down his spine and temples.

It read:

* * *

_**New Eden Clinic **_

_**Residential Treatment Center **_

_**September 5****th****, 1997**_

_**600 Westley Rd, Glencoe, IL**_

_**60022**_

_**\+ 1 847-835-0350**_

_Miss Chastity-Claire Babcock,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been granted a spot at New Eden Clinic. Just as you requested, you will be staying in Room 505 for the duration of your treatment._

_We expect you to check yourself into the clinic by no later than September 15th._

_We ask you to forward on a copy of your medical history, as well as copies of any recent medical reports and tests, to the Oncology Department so that your new oncologist, Dr Gregory Wilson, and his team may begin assessing your treatment regime._

_Our Financial Department will soon be contacting you to discuss setting up a payment plan._

_Once again, we thank you for your trust in us during these difficult times._

_Regards,_

_James Lavin, MD_

_Patient Care Manager_

* * *

Niles felt as if he'd been hit by a wrecking ball square in the chest.

He immediately tried to claw the feeling away, denying it even as the words flashed before his eyes and repeated themselves in his mind. No. No, no, no – this couldn't be happening! This had to be a mistake, didn't it?! Some horrible mix-up, or a case of mistaken identity! It had to be, surely?

But even as he scanned and scoured the page, even turning it over to look on the back, for something which pointed to this being some other Miss Babcock – one that...just happened to share her exact name and address...he realised it was useless.

Useless and hopeless.

Cancer. Miss Babcock had gone away, alone and without telling anybody why, because she had _cancer_! She hadn't just quit because she'd wanted to; she'd quit because she'd had to! She'd run away from it all, to avoid having to tell them the truth! The truth about her...her illness...

He recoiled in horror even at the thought. Miss Babcock had run away – checked herself into this...this "New Eden Clinic" – a month and a half ago. She'd been away for treatment for all the time that had gone past, and no one had even the slightest inkling of where she'd been in all of that time!

But why hadn't she told them?! Not him, necessarily – in fact, definitely; he knew he would be the last person she'd ever want to know this – but the Sheffields! They were her friends, they had been for years, and they would have understood her reasons for going! They would've provided the love and support that anybody needed to get through something like this!

He would've seen them. He would've watched it happen, because he knew damn well that he wouldn't have been allowed to help. He hadn't earned that right.

But the others definitely had, and would continue to earn it as they apologised so profusely for acting as they had.

They'd be so sorry, for all of it – they just hadn't had a clue! And they'd been getting on with their days (as much as he'd been able to), letting Maxwell spout off with his hideous, angry rants against Miss Babcock whenever he'd wanted! He'd called her a Judas in high heels, a blonde she-wolf, the Benedict Arnold of Broadway...! Each line had been more insulting than the next, every session more enraged, and even if they had thought Mr Sheffield should've started to calm down and cut Miss Babcock some slack, they hadn't ever openly defended her! They'd all been too afraid of what would happen, if they'd simply told him to shut the hell up...

They'd had no idea how afraid Miss Babcock would have been. Still was, most likely.

Niles wanted to hit himself. How could they have done this to her?! How could they have let Maxwell just stand there and say such awful things without even so much as checking what might have been going on?! How could he and the Sheffields have not tried harder to find out where she had gone? She'd been alone when she'd needed her friends most; she was going through treatment that would take tolls on her body like most would never believe! She'd been suffering by herself for all that time with no one there to help her, no one to hold her hand through the worst of the pain, no one to tell her that it would be alright at the end...

But was it alright? How could he know? What if even the doctors didn't know yet?!

At that thought, his breath immediately began to speed up, his heart pounding in his aching chest. He shoved it to one side, though – he could've really been having another heart attack and he wouldn't have cared! It didn't matter! Not now that he knew this!

He had to find out, but how?! He couldn't simply hop on a plane to Chicago and rush to her hospital! There were too many variables to consider – what if she wasn't well enough to receive people? What if she was in isolation? What if something had gone wrong and she'd been moved somewhere else? What if she was dy––

_No. _

No, he couldn't and wouldn't think that. He couldn't automatically think the worst – it would be an insult both to the doctors treating her (who were probably a few of the best professionals in America) and to Miss Babcock's fighting spirit. She wasn't the type to go without a fight – she was pure steel, and would beat the living daylights out of anyone or anything that came her way.

He had to be smart about it – go step by step, the first of those being actually finding out if she was still at this New Eden clinic. Luckily for him, the wretched letter he was currently holding had already provided him with enough data to do just that. The only other thing he needed was a phone, and there was a perfectly functional one sitting right there on Miss Babcock's nightstand.

He had to take a few deep breaths to steady his racing heart – he didn't think he would be able to get a word out otherwise. Not that he was planning on having a long conversation or anything; he just had to find out if she was there or not. Truth be told, he didn't know what he'd do in either case scenario! Her being there would only confirm his fears, but if she wasn't at the clinic then he'd be left with no leads to follow and would be back to square one, and probably with even more questions than he currently had.

He just had to see it through, by the look of things – try and figure everything out as he went, regardless of how he felt…

It would be taking a leap of faith. An enormous leap, into an abyss that may or may not have a soft and happy landing. But he had to do it anyway; this was his one hope of getting anywhere.

And he had to stop stalling by "gearing himself up". He had the letter with the phone number, the phone was right there – he had nothing left to stop him.

Taking in one final deep breath and keeping the letter in one hand, he grabbed the phone and dialled in the number before he could chicken out. He had to hold his resolve and each button was a bullet to bite, but soon enough, he was holding the device to his ear and listening to the tone as a phone rang in a hospital somewhere in Illinois.

He was almost wondering if he'd been let off the hook when it was answered.

"Good morning, this is the New Eden Clinic. How can I help you?"

"Y-Yes! Hi, hello," Niles nearly yelped, everything he'd thought to himself about keeping calm and in control. "I, um – I was wondering if you could help me."

"Of course, sir; what did you need help with today?"

_Not sounding like an idiot, perhaps?_ The butler took in another calming breath and got rid of the thought before trying again.

"I wish to speak to a...friend of mine. Her name is Miss Chastity-Claire Babcock, in Room 505."

He knew she'd scoff, or maybe even loudly protest, at him calling them friends. But what else was he going to do? He couldn't exactly say _"Excuse me, I've spent the last fifteen years making one of your patient's lives a source of my amusement. Can you help me find her?", could he?_

The receptionist didn't even seem to suspect that that could be on his mind. Her bright, pleasant and unsuspecting smile seemed to beam at him directly through the phone.

"Certainly, sir. Hang on just a moment and I'll put you right through."

Niles felt his organs suspend, uneasily, in the air. Like they'd suddenly been put in zero gravity and the rest of him hadn't been.

Well, that had been...easy enough, he supposed. They hadn't even asked him who he was, or anything! They hadn't taken his name or address, or done anything to suggest they needed a background check...! Was that even legal?

He didn't know for certain, but a little voice at the back of his head reminded him that he shouldn't care. Not at the moment, anyway, when there wasn't going to be any harm. He only wanted to know that Miss Babcock was still there, after all.

Thanking the receptionist, he waited for the line to be connected.

It rang about twice at the most before a familiar hand with a familiar voice picked up.

"Hello?"

_Oh God…_

It was her! It really was her. There was no way he'd mistake it. The voice on the other end was Miss Babcock's. After all the weeks she'd been away, she was still there, at the clinic!

And she sounded...unwell. Tired, and worn down, as though she'd had life drained right out of her. It made him want to reach out and ask what he could get for her, in order to make it all alright again. Even though he knew there was nothing.

But he couldn't do that. She'd never listen if she knew it was him. She'd hang up, and make sure she never answered to him again.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

She was starting to sound worried, too (who wouldn't be, after being called by a stranger who then refused to speak?). But he didn't want to prolong it; he had all the information he needed.

So, fighting the last minute hesitation and urge to say something – anything – he put the phone down, ignored the unmade bed he'd never gotten around to finishing and hastily left the room.

He had to; he couldn't stand being in there anymore. Not when he'd just had an idea.

If Miss Babcock was at the clinic still and would only ever hang up on him if he called, then the only thing he could do (his only remaining plan) was the crazy idea he'd had earlier, wasn't it? Flying to Chicago to travel to see her in person! He didn't know why the idea had just jumped back into his head – maybe it was hearing how unwell and far away she sounded – but it was there and it wasn't letting go.

He wouldn't let it go, either. It was the only plan he had and he was sticking to it. It didn't even really matter that he knew Miss Babcock would unleash her wrath on him for even attempting to contact her right now. He had to try to get through to her, and this was the only way.

He didn't care that Mr Sheffield would probably flare up at him the moment he told the him he was going away. It wouldn't even matter that he wasn't planning on telling him where; Maxwell would just have to do without a butler – Niles had a ton of unused vacation days that he'd just elected to use up all at once, and that was that!

He could take as long as he liked then, as well, and he'd find out what was going on.

At least, he hoped he would.

Taking one last look at the work he'd done around the penthouse, he made his way towards the front door. He had to leave, right now. He'd have to catch a plane very soon, and he still needed to pack.

* * *

AN: It's happening, folks, no more teasing! We are so happy you are liking our story and thank you profusely for taking the time to read it and review it. Your comments make our day!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The empty plastic lollipop stick made a soft clang as it fell into the metal trash can. That was immediately followed by the crinkling of yet another lollipop being unwrapped – apple flavoured, Wilson's favourites.

He usually went through three or four lollipops during his workday – everyone knew he had a massive sweet tooth – but on days like this, his intake could very easily double. Stress did strange things to people, and in Wilson's case, it made him a sugar junkie.

The day had actually had a great start – there had been no traffic on his way to work, he'd exchanged zingers with Cameron, and he'd actually gotten to discharge a few patients. Things had started to go downhill when he'd gotten C.C.'s latest test results back: the tumour wasn't shrinking fast enough.

It wasn't entirely unexpected, given the advanced stage of her disease. He'd known it could happen, and if things didn't change soon, then the possibility of C.C. needing a bone marrow transplant would quickly become a reality. He didn't want to get to that stage – not when he knew the cure was just as (if not more) gruelling as the disease itself. They had time still, luckily, but he didn't like it when his patients' struggles worsened.

That feeling was made all the worse by the knowledge that it was Miss Babcock they were talking about. He'd never say so out loud, of course (that wasn't the way he wanted to toss out his own reputation), but there it was. He was worried for her beyond all belief, because she was his friend as well as his patient by this stage, and he knew how much she was hurting.

Sue him for breach of the "no mush" contract, but that was the way it was.

He'd already decided to sustain the treatment regime they'd already planned so far. The tumour wasn't shrinking as much or as fast as he'd hoped it would, but the chemo was clearing out Miss Babcock's lymphoma. It was working – he knew it would – but the tumour was a constant nag in his mind. It was a mix of good and bad news that he thought he could work with, as long as he monitored the situation carefully.

None of it was exactly enough to take care of the emotional toil the whole thing was inflicting on the former producer, though. He'd heard from Cameron how shaving C.C.'s hair had gone, for instance: it had been a completely and utter disaster. In fact, it had probably been one of the hardest things they'd gone through so far.

Their patient had been laughing and joking all the way there (a common sign of self-comfort and reassurance), but when the hair cutting had started, she had begun to cry. It only got worse as the razor did its work, escalating until she hadn't been able to speak. It had truly hit home how real it all was, and the hair loss was the last straw that had snapped that camel's back in two.

She'd spent the rest of that day crying, as well. And her fever hadn't gone away, either, which was a deep concern for Wilson all by itself. She was doing badly, physically and emotionally, and the latter of those was paramount if she wanted to do well with the former.

Wilson knew he'd never say that he didn't know what to do. That was one thing his patients could always rely on. But in this case, it was a toll on his own heart and mind because he wasn't sure they could just keep going the way they were.

Miss Babcock needed more support than she was getting. More than just the phone calls and occasional visits she had with her brother – they weren't enough to make her feel like she wasn't alone. They were like...like training wheels on a bike, but weird ones that only touched the ground if you were going to tip over. A last resort, if you will. Just enough to keep her going but not enough to help her thrive with confidence.

It was a terrible thing to have to go through alone…

There was only one solution, in Wilson's mind: she had to have somebody there with her.

He would have to talk about it with Noel when he next visited. For all Wilson knew, the college professor might be able to make her see reason. Wilson and Cameron had tried to get C.C. to contact her family and friends on many occasions, but she'd shot them down each and every time.

The woman was too stubborn for her own good, and refused to even consider she could be wrong about not needing anyone to help her through this. There was nothing they could do, though – she was a grown woman, and ultimately, they couldn't force her to involve others in her treatment if she didn't want to, even if it was detrimental to her recovery.

The road ahead was both long and daunting, and Wilson sometimes wondered if his bullheaded friend had misjudged just how difficult this would be. It wouldn't be over in months – her being done with chemo didn't mean she'd be cancer free. No, chemo was only the first part of a years-long recovery, and what followed it would be just as difficult if not more.

Emotional support was crucial for patients to successfully go back to normal. She couldn't go back to the life she'd led before all this had happened just like that, not if she wanted to go into remission and, eventually, get to the stage where she could be declared cancer-free.

Wilson suspected Miss Babcock hadn't quite accepted this yet – she was still grieving and very much in denial, but that was normal in most cancer patients. It wasn't easy to kiss goodbye to everything you were before a horrible disease took over, after all. But the main difference between Miss Babcock and most of his other patients, was her non-existent support network.

Wilson had seen cases – heartbreaking cases – where patients lacked support and had to face treatment alone. More often than not those patients would end up withering away in care homes until the disease claimed them and put an end to their misery. But C.C.'s case wasn't like those – she was making a _conscious_ and thorough effort to reject any source of support that came her way, even when there were people who'd be there for her!

He didn't understand it at all. Then again, a lot of people would say that he often understood medicine and treating people better than he understood their feelings. Not that he thought that was true, it was just some crappy rumour that had gotten started by people who hadn't liked his methods.

People – especially _some people_ – were just more complicated than others. And he had one on his hands right then.

He knew what he would do in this case, though, as a substitute until a better plan came along. It was something he'd been doing for a while. His own visits were some of the few C.C. couldn't reject outright, so he always made the effort to go and see her. Asking her how she was and chatting might've seemed like a very doctor-ish thing to do, but in this particular case, it was also something of an unregistered, unofficial therapy session and a friendly visit at the same time. He didn't mind, as long as she spent time with someone and it took some of the burden off her.

And, as he'd seen in her case file, she needed all the burden taken off her that she could get. Especially to help her body overcome the fever.

Sticking his lollipop in the corner of his mouth, he gathered up her paperwork (which had been in several small piles on his desk) and put it away in a filing cabinet. He wasn't going to leave it all lying around if he was going to see his patient, and he wasn't going to need it for the time being.

He left his office fairly quickly after that, stopping only to grab another spare lollipop (a strawberry one, that time), which he stuck in his pocket as he closed the door and started the journey to Miss Babcock's room.

It never took long for the route to his patients' rooms to become muscle memory. Even when it was kind of a long route, he could tune out and come back in right when he'd reached the right door. It saved him a lot of time, and meant that he could concentrate on other things on the way.

Usually, at any rate. Today, however, something was different.

Everything had been fine for most of the route, but the moment he got to the corridor that connected to the reception, he overheard something very familiar mixed in with the ordinary conversation of a working hospital.

"––looking for Miss Chastity-Claire Babcock. Her room number is 505?"

Wilson's feet halted, one after the other so his right side had to swing out and then fall back into place where he stood.

Somebody in there was looking for C.C.? This was a revelation and a half! He didn't know if he believed in God or not, but somebody up-or-out there liked him and had sent him a saviour!

Well, even if it was just a coincidence, Wilson didn't care. That person was the lifeline he'd been looking for and he absolutely had to see who it was!

Creeping-hurrying (a term he'd invented in med school whenever he'd have to sneak out of the lab after hours – after breaking in to conduct experiments, of course) his way towards the reception, he stopped at the corner just before the turn. From there, he could just about peek out over the corner of the reception desk to get a good view...

Directly at the person who'd asked for C.C..

The guy that was stood there would have been elegantly dressed, had the suit he was wearing not been so dishevelled. It wasn't far behind his sand-blonde hair, which he had apparently been raking through out of stress at some point.

None of this bothered the receptionist – Gina, if Wilson recalled correctly. They were all used to all kinds of people in that place, especially concerned friends and loved ones who hadn't slept properly for days.

"Of course," Gina replied, probably with a smile that Wilson couldn't see. "If I can just see some ID, I'll be happy to let you go right on through."

The man at the desk appeared to do the human equivalent of a computer glitching, and Wilson quirked an eyebrow. Something was up; did this tall, not-that-dark stranger have something to be worried about? He looked as though he did.

"I...I'm afraid I don't have any with me, I...do I really need identification? I'm Niles Brightmore – I phoned just yesterday...! I could...talk to Miss Babcock then..."

Gina half-shrugged, "It is our policy, sir; you know the code."

The man blinked, "I'm sorry, code?"

"The code number, for Miss Babcock's room. 505," the receptionist explained. "Only trusted friends and relatives of our patients are, at the patient's discretion, given the number. They can then use it to talk to them over the phone without going through a background check. But, to make sure none of that information ever slips into the wrong hands, we always ask for ID on personal visits."

Wilson felt a smile spreading across his face, as a siren or bell something like the triumphant ending of a game show went off in his head.

Niles Brightmore?! The butler C.C. had mentioned before? That man out there was the one that she had spent all that time trying not to talk about! He'd practically had to force the information out of her, but now the guy himself was stood in front of him, trying to come inside!

He clearly wasn't as "in the past" as C.C. had tried to make him out to be! He'd made it all the way out to them from New York, just to see her!

The sight nearly made Wilson want to punch the air. He couldn't believe it! The butler himself had actually arrived to see her; this couldn't be a bigger stroke of luck if the doctor had tried!

He had to do something quickly, though – the butler wasn't going to be allowed to stay much longer if he couldn't cough up some form of ID. Or, as a stroke of genius suggested, find an advocate who just happened to be "expecting" him...

"Is there any way I could see her without an ID?" the butler insisted – practically pleaded. "She doesn't know I'm coming to visit her – it's a surprise, you see…"

"I'm sorry, Mr Brightmore, but I'm afraid you––"

" –– couldn't have come at a better time!" Wilson loudly declared as he came over to meet and shake the man's hand. "I'm so glad you could make it, even if my call was on such short notice. Gregory Wilson, by the way, Miss Babcock's oncologist, as you might remember."

"Oh, of course! It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr Wilson," replied the butler, not skipping a beat – he'd clearly caught on to what Wilson wanted to do, and he'd caught on fast! "I came over as fast as I could."

"I'm sorry, Dr Wilson, but were you expecting him?" Gina asked, "You didn't mention anything about this to us."

"Must have slipped my mind," Wilson said with a shrug. "Not the first time it's happened. Anyway, there's no need to ask for Mr Brightmore's ID – I called him yesterday and asked him to come, you won't find him in the system yet."

"But, Dr Wilson, hospital policy––"

"Gina darling, it's like you don't even know me! When do I ever even remotely care about following hospital policy? Let me give you a clue –never," Wilson said. "It was a last minute thing – no time for paperwork!"

He watched, anticipating her thought process as Gina's mouth opened and closed a little. It was almost as though she were trying to form an argument. The only thing was, she probably couldn't think of one that didn't start with the words "but hospital policy". And, as the doctor had made it very clear he was going rogue with this "newly invited guest", she didn't have much of a leg to stand on when it came to getting things done the correct way.

She had to relent. She had to reach the conclusion that it wasn't as though this guy was a stranger, if Wilson had called him personally – and how would this Mr Brightmore know the code if he hadn't been one of Miss Babcock's trusted few? That was actually probably something Wilson should ask Niles himself about in a moment, now that he thought about it. Once he'd congratulated him on his cojones for trying to lie and sneak in, of course.

Gina had just come to her own conclusion as well.

"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt just this once, if you know who he is, Dr Wilson," she said, searching around in the desk. Probably for one of those ridiculous _Visitor_ lanyards they had. "Just please remember to fill in the paperwork as soon as you can and we can get Mr Brightmore into the system. Then this won't be an issue again."

The fact that it could be an issue again was the only thing which kept Wilson from practically screwing up the thought of the paperwork and mentally tossing it into a trash can. He had a hunch about Niles, and if it was correct the butler was going to need easy access to and from the hospital.

"It will be with you as soon as possible," Wilson told the receptionist, watching as she passed a lanyard over to Niles. He then turned to the butler. "Ready to go? I'm sure C.C. will be delighted to see you!"

Niles coughed minutely in return. It almost sounded like choking, being disguised as him clearing his throat.

"Y-Yes, I'm all set, thank you," he replied, putting the lanyard around his neck. "Which...which way is her room?"

Wilson let his face stretch into a broad smile. This was going to be just perfect – he could feel it already! If he couldn't already sense the nervousness that practically radiated from the guy's body, he would've slapped him on the back. Niles turning up really had done a complete one-eighty on his mood. This was the greatest miracle-coincidence he'd been through since...since...well, probably ever! Not that he'd ever admit such a thing out loud; how else could he ever keep up his reputation of going through all kinds of miracles literally every day? It would force away the illusion!

"It's just this way, my friend – not far at all," he gestured into the corridor, following a step or two behind as Niles headed off.

He wanted to make sure that Gina went back to her work before he and C.C.'s surprise guest got talking, just in case their voices carried when they got into the corridor.

Wilson kept his voice low as he started, too, just in case it did anyway.

"Bet you're glad I came along just when I did," he muttered to the butler, coming in alongside him. "I must note now, if we're going to learn anything at all about each other, that you'll find out I am fantastic at timing."

Niles looked at him in return, now back to being as confused as he'd been when he'd been dealing with Gina, even if the relief of not being caught was still nestled in there somewhere.

"And if you must know anything about me, it's that I like to know what's going on at any given time," Niles replied quickly. "Might I be allowed to know right now, Doctor, or is that kept under a special code as well?"

Wilson spluttered out a chuckle. Oh, it was no wonder C.C. had mentioned this guy – he had the same quick wit about him. The doctor could only imagine that seeing the two of them together would be something akin to seeing electricity crackling right in front of one's eyes.

He couldn't wait. But he could delay it long enough to help this unexpected visitor out.

"No, no special code for this; I'll have you caught up in no time," he began scanning the upcoming corridor for a potential target. They had to find somewhere quiet to chat before going to see the lady of the hour. "We just need to take a little detour before we go to see Miss Babcock. That's not a problem, is it?"

He found a suitable room – a currently unused doctor's break room – just as Niles answered.

"I think it might actually be for the best, I...I don't know how much she's actually talked about me, but–"

"She's told me enough to know we'll get along famously," Wilson said, cutting over him and opening the door. He gestured inside for the butler. "After you."

Without hesitation, Niles walked into the room, Wilson following close behind and closing the door after him. The faster they got this over and done with, reasoned the butler, the faster he could get to Miss Babcock. He didn't attempt to sit or get comfortable; he didn't intend for this meeting to last for long. He simply stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest and eyes on the still smiling oncologist – Miss Babcock's oncologist, based on what the admission letter said…

It still didn't feel real…

"So, we meet at last," Wilson said, getting the ball rolling. "Niles Brightmore, Babcock's royal pain in the ass!"

Niles' lips twitched into a brief smile. It didn't make sense, but there was something reassuring about Miss Babcock having spared him a thought or two. Maybe more, judging by Wilson's words. He'd been so sure that she'd forget him – stash away each and every memory of them together into the back of her mind…

But she hadn't. And that alone was enough to fill him with the bravery he needed to face her again.

"Good to know she still thinks highly of me," Niles said, smile all but gone and now replaced by a neutral expression. "How much has she told you about––"

"Your relationship?" Wilson cut him off. "Enough. Actually, it's what she _didn't_ say that interested me the most, and it's also what earned you a ticket into this clinic, courtesy of yours truly."

He bowed with a flourish, looking all the more smug if that were possible.

"You'll have to elaborate, Doctor," Niles replied. "I'm afraid I'm not following."

"Figured you wouldn't, pal," said the doctor, finishing the last of his lollipop and immediately getting the other one from his coat's pocket. "Let's just say that she spent an awful lot of time talking about a man she supposedly hates. Not to mention she does the equivalent of a turtle retreating into its shell whenever I bring up this particular issue."

He watched as what Wilson suspected was hope flickered in the butler's eyes. It was gone in almost an instant – probably his mind denying it after his heart had hoped, or some Hallmark-y schmaltz like that. But Wilson had seen it, whether or not it might later be denied.

"Really?" Niles' eyes casually (but not subtly) went to the door where they had come in.

He seemed ready to go back out here and find C.C.'s room on his own. Not that Wilson would let him, of course – it was too much of a good scene to ever miss that happening. Besides, he was sure that this would work and that they could pull it off all together, if Niles was completely on board.

He just needed to know a little of what had been going on behind-the-hospital-curtain while he'd been away.

"Really," Wilson replied with an air of confidence that only he could muster. "She doesn't mention anybody else half as many times as you, but she always clams up and cuts me off whenever I deign suggest she tell me more about the two of you."

Niles felt his insides seize up, like clockwork that had just had a cog come loose. It jammed up the whole system, stopped it from working, made it all freeze.

He...he wasn't quite sure that he could've heard Wilson correctly. And he was definitely sure that if he had heard him correctly, then he didn't understand why! Why on Earth would Miss Babcock talk about him to...to anybody?! And even if she did, why would she suddenly stop when anybody tried to find out more? Wouldn't she at least toss them a pithy remark about how he wasn't even worth mentioning? Or a zinger perhaps, about how if she said his name too many times he'd show up? Then she'd probably refer to him as "Butlerjuice" and delight in her own sharp wit...

But he was getting side-tracked! He had to snap himself out of it and find out what was going on. He was there now and he couldn't stop dead forever.

"That really...I don't think that that sounds much like Miss Babcock," he eventually managed to get out. "Did she say anything else along with it? Like an insult about how I'm irrelevant, or incompetent, or something of that nature?"

Wilson thought about it for a moment before nodding.

"Both of those, on different days. And yet, it still never stops her from talking about you."

Niles thought he might need to sit down until the world stopped spinning. Or turning on its head, as the case seemed to currently be. How else was he supposed to describe what he was hearing?

Miss Babcock was talking about him. Willingly, and to other people!

That had never once happened back in New York. Why would it? He was only the butler who used unwashed cups to make her coffee, or polished surfaces too hard to make her slip and slide about on them. He was a pain to her – a nuisance. But as soon as she left the mansion, he didn't even have to appear on her radar. He'd been a part of her usual, ordinary, everyday life (which this wasn't, really; it was extraordinary circumstances) but he hadn't been an important one.

But knowing that did leave him with one question: what had changed?

The incredulity and confusion must have been obvious to Wilson, because the doctor made a face like a fat, spoiled cat who'd gotten both the cream and the canary.

"Surprise...!" he pretended to declare, using jazz hands to give it another flourish. "You've got a bigger part in this play than you imagined, bud. It's why I knew you'd be perfect to help out, as soon as I heard you say your name back at the desk."

The butler blinked, again not following.

"I'm sorry? What do you mean by "help out"?"

He couldn't imagine Miss Babcock accepting any help coming from him. He didn't have the best track record, admittedly. If he knew her (and he did) she wouldn't want to risk it when she was at her most vulnerable. Not that he would ever dream of hurting a woman (anyone, really) who was this sick, but he didn't blame her for not trusting him.

Niles didn't know why she'd left without telling the Sheffields about her condition, but he could understand why she had left without telling _him_, in particular. He wasn't going to lie – it was a little insulting that she'd thought that he would have mocked her suffering from a horrible disease, but it wasn't unwarranted.

"There are very few reasons why I'd be willing to break HIPAA rules," Wilson said, looking serious for the first time in their conversation. "And my patient's life being at risk is one of them."

"What do you mean?" Niles said, feeling his stomach twisting into tight knots and his heart jumping into his mouth.

"I mean that she isn't well, Niles, both emotionally and physically speaking," Wilson said, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth. "Let me try and give you a general idea of her current situation: Miss Babcock has stage 4B Hodgkin's Lymphoma, a type of blood cancer. It has affected several lymph node groups and has caused a tumour to grow between her left lung and her heart. As her disease is quite advanced, her treatment regime is extremely aggressive. She needs eight chemo cycles and, if the tumour doesn't shrink, she'll also need a bone marrow transplant. All in all, she's facing at least a year of treatment, followed by a lengthy recovery. Without proper support, I fear she won't be able to pull through this. I feel she hasn't grasped just how hard this will be on her, and her stubbornness might translate into a slowed down recovery, and that's the last thing she needs."

Even the slight shift in Wilson's already grave tone made the butler feel like he was shrinking. The enormity of what Miss Babcock had and needed far outweighed any kind of support he felt able to give. Wouldn't her brother be better for this, or her father? They had her trust, her confidence and understanding. She knew where she stood with them, and most likely wouldn't be keeping a record in the back of her head as to whether or not they had been playing jokes on her, for all the time that she was unwell...

But before he could say that the doctor had the wrong man (and potentially admit that this had all been a mistake anyway), Wilson carried on with his explanation.

"But, this is where you come in. Kinda like a...well, maybe not the light at the end of the tunnel, but I do believe that you are the train tracks that will get us to said light."

Trying not to reel too much at the metaphor, Niles blinked, "How? I'm not exactly medically qualified, nor am I Miss Babcock's favourite person in the world..."

Wilson clapped his hands together once in a loud snap, pointing finger guns at Niles immediately after.

"And that is _exactly_ why I needed you, my friend. Miss Babcock hasn't spoken to anybody but her brother since she arrived. No one apart from him knows what's going on, and Noel hasn't been able to convince her to reach out to anyone else. He can't be around a lot, which means she's spent most of her days on her own, cooped up in bed. They're at an impasse, and you're here to change just that. You have to combat her stubborn side and give it a good kick in the pants, all to make sure that _she_ gives cancer a good kick in the pants," he said, sounding quite pleased with his own idea. "You don't have to be medically qualified to piss people off – trust me, I know – or to stick in their craw so much that they can't think of anything else. Again, I know that from experience. You have somehow managed to do both to my patient over the years, making you the perfect candidate to get her to accept some much needed support so that she can move along a bit more quickly in her recovery."

Niles nearly felt himself stumble. The fact that his relationship with Miss Babcock was complicated had never once come in useful before in his life! If anything, it had only seemed to make a lot of things harder, when he wasn't planning on pranking her or setting up a zinger...

In fact, those times were some of the few that he found least difficult to understand, whenever he thought about them.

But did the doctor really want him to basically annoy Miss Babcock into accepting help from others? It killed him a little bit inside to think that the former producer hadn't spoken to anybody at all apart from Noel, but surely there were people better suited to helping her? He was just a thorn in her side, and there were people out there that she loved, who would do the job just as well...

People out there she hadn't told, who deserved to see her far more than he did.

"I know it's a bit daunting," Wilson insisted, perhaps having sensed his reluctance. "But, trust me, you are just what she needs. No matter what happened between you two before. We've tried to reason with her, and it wasn't enough – I feel she needs an eye-opener. A harsh one, perhaps, and I'm certain you are the perfect person to do just that."

Niles sighed – Wilson did have a point when he said Miss Babcock was stubborn and that he was probably one of the few people who could go toe to toe with that side of her, but he still wasn't sure he was suited to help her. He wanted to, not to get him wrong, but he doubted she'd let him in the first place.

Still, he owed it to her to at least try. He'd do anything, if it meant making things easier on her…

"Alright," he said. "I'll try, but I can't guarantee it will work."

"I know that. Still, we have to at least try," Wilson said. "Anyway, now that all cards are on the table, I think it's time for us to get going."

Niles wished he could come up with some excuse to delay what was coming, selfish as that was, but he also knew there was no point in doing that. It wouldn't do anyone any good. She needed help, and he was there to provide it. Any fears he might have had were irrelevant. He'd come looking for her – he'd come wanting to help, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Or at least try to…

"Lead the way," the butler said, gesturing over at the door.

Wilson didn't need to hear anything else. Looking every inch a satisfied man, he opened the door and walked out, Niles following close behind. They made their way up to her room in complete silence, something which was greatly appreciated by the butler. He wasn't in the mood to chit-chat. Instead, he tried to drown out his growing panic by paying close attention to the clearly luxurious hospital Miss Babcock had chosen to be treated in. It was exactly the kind of place Niles imagined sick rich people went to, when they needed prolonged treatment, but at the same time he was somewhat impressed by the sheer magnificence of it all. This wasn't your typical run-of-the-mill high-end clinic – quite honestly, it looked more like a boutique hotel than a hospital!

It was an ideal place to be, if one wanted to keep a low profile and be as comfortable as possible while in treatment. That was probably why Miss Babcock had chosen it in the first place. It ticked every box: luxurious, discreet and high-quality.

"Here we are," Wilson said, as they eventually arrived at Room 505's door. "Miss Babcock's room. Now, before you go in, a word of caution – she's very delicate. She had chemo yesterday, so she's feeling extremely weak and is running a fever. Try to be as gentle as possible."

Niles nodded, trying not to swallow too hard. He didn't want the doctor to know that he was afraid – it felt shameful, in a way. He knew he should have been ready and raring to go, just like he had been when he'd decided to just drop everything and rush straight out of New York to head for Illinois. But now the moment had finally arrived, all he wanted to do was drag his feet.

He had an image in his head of what Miss Babcock would look like as a patient, and the moment he walked through the door he'd find out just how accurate he had been. He wasn't sure if he wanted his picture shattered or not; if she looked better than he had thought, then he would be relieved. But what if she looked worse? Would he be able to take in the sight without hurting so badly he had to leave?

He didn't know. He didn't even know if she'd want him in the room – she could look up at him the minute he walked through the door and order him to turn right around again, for all he knew.

A nagging voice in the back of his mind told him there was only one way to find out (as well as to stop being a coward).

After giving a little more indication that he was ready (he wasn't, but he supposed he would never be, really), Wilson opened the door to what could have been an apartment in a building on Park Avenue and gestured for the butler to go inside. He then pointed Niles towards a door on the other side of the room.

"Miss Babcock's bedroom is just through there – go ahead, I'll be right here if you need anything."

Well, he'd taken the leap now. There wasn't any turning back or walking away anymore. All he could do was move forwards.

It seemed to take an age to get to the door. If he'd been in a better mood, he might have made an internal quip about how large the room was and how it was no wonder it felt like it was taking forever. But he was too consumed by the thought of what it really was, making him feel that way.

He rapped softly on the wood once he was close enough, taking in a deep, steadying breath before he announced himself.

"Miss Babcock? It's...it's Niles..."

He could've kicked himself for that. Of course it was Niles – did he have to be so pathetic even just by trying to greet a person?! Who else was it going to be, with his voice?

Not that said voice had apparently gotten him anywhere. There was no sound at all coming from behind the door – not even one telling him to go away, or describing just where he could shove his idea to track her down...

"Miss Babcock, I'm coming in...!"

He felt the need to at least attempt giving her fair warning, as he slowly and steadily opened the door...

He nearly felt his legs give out from underneath him, seeing Miss Babcock asleep in her bed.

She looked...already much thinner and drawn than she had been. Whether that was the chemotherapy, the stress or something else entirely, he didn't know. It didn't help that they'd clearly had to shave her head at the start of her treatment, which somehow only seemed to make her appear smaller, more vulnerable than she already was. The headscarf she had on didn't help, just covering the place where golden locks might once have brought colour and life to her cheeks, which looked deathly pale in their absence. It was like...like someone had taken away the mane of a lion – she didn't look like the imposing, fierce Broadway producer he had known and sparred with daily.

He knew she wouldn't have lost either of those traits, but it was difficult to see them in the woman asleep in that bed, hooked up to an IV drip and weak from rounds of hard-hitting therapy.

It wasn't better than he had been imagining. It wasn't far worse either, but it wrenched at his heart just as much.

He couldn't believe that Miss Babcock wanted to go through this by herself! She had to be in so much pain and in need of so much comfort and reassurance, yet she was shutting everyone that she could out! It made no sense to him – why scurry away and cut off all ties with everyone you've previously known, when going through what had to be one of the worst things that could happen to a person?!

That made him wonder, briefly, if Wilson actually had a point about him being the right person for this job. But he didn't want to get too distracted – not when Miss Babcock was right there, hurting far more than he was...it didn't feel right to be caught up in his own world and worries when hers were far more serious.

Her reality made Niles question why he'd ever thought his own fears even had a bearing on the situation! How could they possibly mean anything, when she was so unwell? It had been near-callous of him to think his feelings had any bearing on what was going on in that room.

He wasn't the important one there; she was, and – as Wilson had been so insistent on pointing out – she needed his help. He had gone there to do just that, and what kind of a...friend? Person. Person definitely suited this case better – it was less complicated. At any rate, what kind of a person would he be if he just abandoned that plan and went home again?

No, he wasn't going anywhere. Well, perhaps back to the living room – to wait for her to wake up so that they could talk, like two calm and rational adults. He wasn't about to stay there like some sort of creep just waiting for her to wake up and see him stood over her bed!

The thought was enough to send a chill up and down his own spine, and that was more than enough of a sign that he needed to go. So, turning on his heel, he started to head back out the door…

…Only to hear a moan, and a soft whimper, accompanied by the rustling of bedsheets.

It was too late. She was waking up.

Niles' eyes couldn't help but be pulled straight back to her, even as his body told him to just dive straight through the door, not look back and pretend the whole thing had never happened if she questioned him.

But he never got around to that, because even before Miss Babcock had registered that there was someone else in the room, she was crying out in obvious, gagging discomfort.

"Oh-oh, God!"

She had leapt up and dived as best she could for the trash can on the floor next to the bed, but she never made it. The vomit came before she could get that far, spilling out over the bedsheets, her own lap, the floor as she tried to move herself out of the bed and out of the way...!

All thought of leaving fled Niles' mind then and there, his thoughts becoming flooded with ideas of helping; he couldn't leave her there, like that! She needed him, and she needed that trash can that was just out of reach!

Practically leaping on the bloody thing, he snatched it up and brought it closer, letting her vomit directly into the bin without spilling any more anywhere else.

And C.C. heaved the contents of her stomach into that can until it hurt, letting it and her sides join the rest of her body in aching and burning and feeling uncomfortable all over...

She didn't even stop to think about how that can could've been brought up to meet her face, until the moment she had nothing left to vomit.

It was only then that she looked up, wincing at a pain in her head, expecting to see Cameron's sympathetic smile, or maybe Wilson's own smug features greeting her, but her blue eyes met another, lighter set, in a smug face that she thought she had left far behind!

_Niles_?! What the hell was he doing there?! How had he found out where she was – had someone told him?! Noel wouldn't do that, would he? Of course not – he wouldn't! But how else had the Butler from the Black Lagoon found out where she was? She hadn't told anybody else!

How the hell had he made all his way into the hospital, and just in time to see her throw up all over herself like a child who hadn't made it to her Mommy in time?!

Oh, God – how had this managed to happen to her?! Why was it that she got the short end of the stick when it came to health, and just when she'd gotten her own plan under control, the last bane of her existence that she'd tried so hard to shut outside the front door simply came in an unmarked side entrance!

And why was it that he was looking at her like he was afraid she'd collapse, or go off like a bomb or something?

"Are you alright, Miss Babcock?" he asked, the panic evident in his voice. It was almost like he'd never had to deal with a sick person before, even if they both knew that wasn't true. "Is there any more? Do you need to keep this with you for a bit longe—"

She grabbed the bin from his hands as he spoke, interrupting his flow with a far more pressing question.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?! How—" she hissed, having to pause to spit up the last little bit of sick still bothering the back of her throat. The bad taste in her mouth was reduced but it didn't go away entirely. "How could you, out of everybody else I left behind in New York, possibly have been the one to find me?!"

He knew it was only right that she asked that. As he'd told Wilson, he knew that he wasn't exactly her favourite person and deservedly so – why wouldn't she be annoyed at the fact that he had been the one to find her? Even if she had wanted to be alone, she would probably not have felt so bad if someone like Mr Sheffield had come looking and found her. A friend, or a loved one; not some pain in the behind of a butler, who only ever seemed to cause her problems.

Not that he was there to do that right now, but her words still made him bristle. Probably from hurt, knowing he was there to help and she still expected ill intent.

"With a whole lot of luck, that's how!" he replied, perhaps a bit sharply.

But if Wilson had said he was there to combat her stubbornness, perhaps it was the tone he needed? He certainly needed to get to work right away, after this – she was going to need help getting to the bathroom to bathe and brush her teeth, for a start (there was a lot that would have to be washed off). And the sheets needed changing, too, while the floor would have to be wiped...

He continued, looking her up and down, "And it looks like I got here at just the right moment, on this occasion!"

"No you did not!" she snapped, glaring at him. "I want an explanation of what the fuck you are do—"

"And you will get it as soon as we get you all cleaned up," he cut her off, taking the bin in his hands and setting it back down next to her bed. "I know you aren't happy to see me—"

"You can say that again…" she grumbled.

"—but we can get to my being here as soon as you are clean and comfortable," he continued, metaphorically sidestepping her thorny remark. "Now, what do you say if I quickly run you a bath? I'll get all of this cleaned up while you wash up."

C.C. felt her insides angrily seize up, like gears stubbornly grinding to a halt when someone in a factory slammed their hand down on the button to halt all production. It was presumptuous of him to even ask to help, after their shared "history" (if she could call their rivalry-based prank war that), plus the fact that he'd basically barged or snuck into what was supposed to be a private, secure hospital facility...

She wanted to say no – to tell him to get out and that she'd deal with everything by herself, like she always did.

But she wasn't sure that she could right at that moment. Vomiting like that had made her feel considerably weaker, and her already-aching and feverish body was, unfortunately, going to need assistance getting anywhere. And he was willing to help her do that, while being the only person around and readily available...

She didn't want to stay sat there covered in her own sick while waiting for Cameron to come from wherever she was in the hospital. She needed to be out of the bedclothes she'd managed to make dirty (God, only little kids threw up on themselves in their own beds!) and she needed to get the horrible taste out of her mouth that was still lingering there.

So, she supposed it was any port in a storm. And Niles was the nearest.

"Alright, fine. You can help," she relented. But she had to make herself feel better about giving in somehow. "I should've guessed you'd want to; you see a mess made and that butler instinct of yours to clean it all back up again just kicks right on in, doesn't it?"

Niles' eyebrow quirked, and he almost wanted to let a grin appear at the corners of his mouth. Clearly, being in this place had done nothing to dull the former producer's razor-sharp wit.

The image he'd had in his mind remained in place, at least in that regard. And that offered him at least a little bit of relief.

He should have guessed nothing would change, he'd just been so fearful that everything would be lost, he hadn't been able to imagine her staying...well, the same inside. But with that sharpshooting character of a doctor out there? She'd probably been having plenty of practice every time the man came in the room – it had kept her toned. Metaphorically speaking, of course – he hadn't been thinking of...physical toning.

That was a train of thought best derailed quickly, which he was more than happy to do by engaging with her how they communicated best. Albeit more gently, considering what she was going through.

"I'm going to let you have that one because you just threw up on yourself and at least three other places all at once," he said. "It's a good thing the one room you don't appear to be using in this place is the kitchen – it would've been at least five places if you'd been dealing with your own cooking."

C.C. sneered back at him, shuffling towards the edge of her bed and trying to avoid the puddles and splashes she'd left behind. She pulled her IV line and its stand along with her.

"Some of us can afford to pay other people to prepare our food for us, Butler Boy. Get the wheelchair – I'm gonna need it if I'm gonna make it to the bathroom right now."

Niles looked in the direction where she was vaguely gesturing, and went to bring it over. The former producer insisted on pulling herself into the chair once it was close enough, even after he'd offered to help, so he simply held it steady so she could get herself as comfortable as she could be.

He couldn't say for sure how comfortable that was. Every movement looked exactly the opposite.

But, he held his tongue (not for the first time, even if that was surprising) and let her do what she had to. After a few moments she seemed to be in the best position she would ever find, so he set off, pushing the chair towards the bathroom, IV stand trundling alongside her.

The bathroom was just as large and luxurious as any other room in the hospital apartment; cream tile flooring and walls, a huge shower, an even bigger bathtub with jacuzzi jets for comfort and relaxation...

Again, it made the butler think how the place could've been any ordinary dwelling back in New York. Well, ordinary for millionaires, but still!

He didn't stand and stare for too long, though – Miss Babcock was most likely getting uncomfortable in her soiled clothes, and he had to do something about it. She'd probably need some help with the IV line in a moment, too.

He directed her wheelchair towards the sink, figuring he could get started on the bath while she brushed her teeth.

"Here – get those fangs of yours looking nice and pearly white," he said. "I'll get started on running the bath."

"Only time anybody'll ever hear you say '_I'll get started running'_..." the former producer muttered back, reaching out to grab her toothbrush and the bottle of toothpaste next to it.

Niles' face became unimpressed, but he turned anyway and went to put the plug in and open the taps. Searching the cupboards surrounding the tub, he soon found several nice-smelling oils and bubble baths that could go into the water as well, filling the room with a nice aroma.

It was almost like they were back in her penthouse, and he was helping out there because she was sick and Mr Sheffield had asked him to. Not...this situation.

And speaking of situations, the closer he got to the bath being complete, the more he got to thinking about the next step.

Would...would Miss Babcock be alright to undress herself? He wanted to say yes, because the woman he remembered was strong and independent and never asked for help, ever. But he'd also just seen her in a hospital bed, unable to help herself as she started vomiting over everything, and he didn't think he could be sure that he truly knew how much had changed since she'd arrived!

He knew he would have to help her with the IV. That part was a given. But what if she usually got a nurse to help her undress, too? Did he have a right to do that?

He didn't know. And he didn't really know how to bring it up, either. But the bath was filling higher and higher by the second, the water was the perfect temperature to not scald anybody, and he needed to think of a way to ask, fast.

"Um...your bath, Miss Babcock. It's just about ready," he eventually called out, figuring he might as well just go for it. He heard the former producer spit into the sink in return. "I'll help with the IV, but will you...need my assistance with your clothes?"

"My _what_ now?!"

C.C.'s half-screamed reply told Niles everything he needed to know about her feelings on the matter. The butler could feel his cheeks turning a deep shade of red and, had he not known she really needed his help to get around, he would have most likely rushed out of the room.

He had to safe face, and he had to do it quickly.

"I…I mean… only if you need me to. But if you'd rather do it yourself or want me to call a nurse, I'll be glad to do so," he said, forcing himself to turn and look at the producer.

To his credit, he managed to get those words out without stammering as much as he'd feared he would. It seemed to convince the producer, at any rate. She was still looking at him oddly, but not like he'd grown a second head or anything of the sort. She was probably just confused – this behaviour was, after all, very out of character for him.

"I'm not an invalid just yet, Rubbermaid," she eventually replied. "And I'll be damned before I lose the last of my dignity by having people dress and undress me like a ragdoll."

"I never meant to imply––"

"I don't care what you meant," she said sharply, cutting him off. "And I certainly don't want to discuss this with you. All you need to know is that I can take it from here, so scram."

Trying not to flinch, Niles looked at the door and then looked at her, in her chair. Could she really make it to the bath by herself from where she was? She'd needed him to bring the chair so close just to get in it...!

He gestured to the chair, hand pointing between it and the bath.

"But, don't you need me to—"

"I don't need anything from you!" Miss Babcock snapped. "If I did, I would've said so. Now get out, before I tell somebody I don't want you here!"

Niles winced at the words, nodding, "I'll be outside if you change your mind...!"

All thought after that fled from the butler's mind, before his feet caught onto the trend and carried him out of the bathroom, just about letting him stop to grab the door handle and pulling it to behind him.

He immediately went to lean against the wall, cheeks burning with shame. He wiped at them and wiped at his eyes, which now felt tired. He couldn't believe he'd just asked Miss Babcock that! Of course she'd reacted that way – who wouldn't, upon being asked to let their worst enemy and the man they hated most undress them?!

Wilson seemed to be having less and less of a point by the second...

Speaking of which, the man himself was stood there in the bedroom, arms folded as though he had just been listening to a very interesting radio broadcast, while a pretty brunette nurse mopped up the previously unclean floor behind him.

"Managed to say all your hellos?" the doctor asked. "I thought I'd stay out of it while you two got underway, but I couldn't resist a little eavesdropping. You don't talk to many women, do you?"

"And you do?" the nurse quickly retorted before Niles could say anything.

Frankly, the butler didn't even mind – he couldn't have come up with a more satisfying answer that that. Not that the nurse's little quip seemed to have bothered Wilson – if anything, he looked like a man on a bloody mission!

"Hm, I don't know," he said, grinning. "Maybe we should find out. Dinner at eight?"

"Not even in your dreams, Wilson," Cameron replied, not looking up from her task. "Now, why don't you do something useful and start removing the bedsheets? Miss Babcock will be needing a fresh new set."

Again, Wilson didn't even bat an eyelid. For a man who'd just been shot down, he actually somehow looked brighter and more confident than ever.

"All in good time; you two haven't even been introduced yet!" he declared, making sweeping motions with his hands between the nurse and the butler. "Nurse Cameron, this is Mr Niles Brightmore; that fine fellow that C.C. has mentioned to us both on so many occasions!"

Cameron quirked an eyebrow in a way that made Niles wonder exactly what had been said, but before he could ask, Wilson carried on.

"Mr Brightmore, this is Lisa Cameron, Miss Babcock's personal nurse for the duration of her stay."

The nurse turned her curious expression into a smile, her hands full of dirtied sheets.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr Brightmore – I'd shake your hand, but it's probably best not to right now," she indicated to the bundle she was quickly gathering on the bed. She then looked very deliberately over at Wilson. "Of course, it would all be going a lot faster if I had an extra set of hands...!"

That was when the doctor finally sprang into action, practically jumping straight to helping the nurse remove the sheets.

"See? I said 'all in good time' and now is a good time," he said, starting to strip the pillows of their cases. He then grinned at Cameron. "How's that extra set of hands now?"

"They'd would be a lot better if they worked as much as their owner talks," replied Cameron before turning to look back at the butler. "Mr Brightmore, why don't you go and grab a coffee at the hospital's cafeteria? Knowing Miss Babcock, it will be a while before she's done in there."

Niles hesitated at first, worried that there might be something he'd miss that he could potentially help with, otherwise. But then he reminded himself that he'd just asked to help with the worst possible moment he could've brought up at any one time, and came to the conclusion that Miss Babcock wouldn't want him around for the time being.

It slightly hurt, but he'd already made a commitment to helping and nothing was changing that. He wanted to see her get well again, as tempestuous as their relationship had been before any of this had happened. And he didn't think that leaving her to whatever fate had in store was right or fair, now that he knew what was going on.

Considering everything, he would have actually found it rather cruel and heartless. Even coming from him.

But, if the former producer would be a while yet and he couldn't be useful inside the room for the time being, going for a coffee was probably the best substitute activity he had available. It might let him calm down and shake off the embarrassment (or not – he cringed minutely even thinking of it!), regather his thoughts and come back slightly refreshed. He had had a long journey, after all.

So, he let the hesitation pass and nodded quickly to what Cameron had said, "Alright. I'll see what they have..."

Wilson gave him an encouraging look as well, "Take your time, bud. Not 'cause the selection's great in there or anything, but it really could be a while. Grab a table, sit everything out for a bit and one of us will come get you when it's all alright to come back in, okay?"

Niles wanted to take those words as a sign that he hadn't ruined everything completely. It wasn't the best one, but it was the only one he had. Why would Wilson tell him they'd come fetch him back, if they didn't think he would still be...well, just about welcome?

He nodded again before quickly taking his leave, heading from the room into the corridor. Fortunately, the hospital was well signposted and he was soon on his way to the cafeteria.

He was comforted by the thought that the walk might help him to clear his mind. It had been so overcrowded with worries in the last few hours that he hadn't been able to think straight!

But knowing Miss Babcock was in a facility like this was reassuring – she would receive only the very best in treatment there, it was obvious from literally everything about the place. And now that he'd arrived, he could help her on her journey to recovery. After he'd made up for his faux pas just now, of course. He felt like he might be paying for it for a while, but surely it would eventually have to be dropped.

He'd certainly know never to do it again, and he'd do everything he could to see to it that he got better as a... as a what? A carer? A long term visitor? A friend?

He didn't know. For some reason, he suspected that Wilson would have an answer wrapped up somewhere in that plan of his, but he couldn't say for sure what that answer would be.

All he could hope was that Miss Babcock would let him stay long enough to find out.


End file.
